SUMMERHOUSE
by Vplasgirl
Summary: Six years after Sara leaves the lab and Las Vegas, Grissom retires and moves to Boston. There, he finds a nice compromise to the life he's always loved, and his old friend, Dan. Little did he know that he and Dan have a mutual acquaintance.
1. Summerhouse

**Title: **SUMMERHOUSE

**Author:** Vplasgirl (aka Danie, LSI)

**Disclaimer:** 'CSI' and all its characters belong to Anthony Zuiker, CBS and Alliance Atlantis. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Spoilers:** Up to the end of Season 5

**Summary:** Six years after Sara leaves the lab and Las Vegas, Grissom retires and moves to Boston to teach at Harvard. There, he finds a nice compromise to the life he's always loved. And, he gets to reunite with his old friend, Dan. Little did he know that he and Dan have a mutual acquaintance, one that would at long last change his life.

* * *

**Prologue**

_Dear Catherine,_

_I can picture your utter disbelief at receiving this email. You didn't think you'd hear from me, did you? It's that 'uh-huh' you mumbled when I said I'd be in touch that clued me in to your skepticism. But your first clue that I intended to keep my promise should have been that I hung around for cake. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, ask Warrick. He'll explain it to you.)_

_I met with the Dean this morning, finalized the terms of my employment, and then found a nice hermetically sealed condo near campus. No snickering! I've turned enough new leaves this year. Unfortunately, it's not available until the end of August so I'll need to make other arrangements for the summer…preferably some quiet place where I can finally tackle my little project. And no, I still won't tell you what it is. Deal with it. If it's successful, I promise you'll be the first to know._

_I'll be in touch again once I'm settled somewhere, but for now, I have to go. I'm meeting an old friend for drinks in the lounge downstairs in a few minutes. He's a heart surgeon and a professor of cardiovascular surgery at Harvard Medical School. And before you complete that disparaging thought, he's in pediatrics!_

_Give my regards to everyone. And, keep an eye on Greg for me, will you?_

_Gil_

_p.s.: When all is said and done, it's not the lab I miss so much as the people. (See, I do have a heart.) Take care of each other._

Satisfied with his missive, Gil hit 'send' and powered down his laptop. A quick glance at his watch told him he had just enough time for a quick shower before meeting Dan.

* * *

**Chapter 1 - Summerhouse**

_**June 30, 2011**_

As expected at five o'clock on a Friday afternoon, the Four Seasons' lobby lounge was lively with the after-work crowd. Suits, male and female, sat in overstuffed chairs and loveseats around low round tables, sipping cocktails and popping fistfuls of peanuts into their mouths; some were in hushed conversations while others carried on in more boisterous tones.

Gil immediately spotted Daniel Colton at the bar. Although Daniel was facing away from the door and he hadn't laid eyes on him in over ten years, there was no mistaking that full head of strawberry-blond hair. Gil smiled, but before joining Dan, he took a moment to do what he always did, what he had semi-consciously been doing for six years: he scanned the room for a pretty brunette with dark eyes and a heart-stopping smile.

Expectations of seeing her had never been high, and after all these years his disappointment barely registered.

But he still looked. Just in case.

As if sensing his presence, Dan turned and after a moment's hesitation, a wide grin split his face. "Hey, Gil!" He waived as he got to his feet.

Gil crossed the room and shook his friend's hand. "It's been too long, Daniel."

"It has." Dan motioned for him to sit. "A drink," he stated loudly, drawing the bartender's attention. "What will you have?"

"A vodka Martini," Gil said directly to the bartender, then swiveled in his seat to face Dan who was eyeing him steadily.

"I'd say you haven't changed, but that would be a lie. I almost didn't recognize you with that beard."

Grinning wryly, Gil unconsciously scratched his jaw. "A mid-life crisis; it hides a double chin."

"You look pretty trim and fit to me."

The bartender set Gil's martini down on a cardboard coaster.

Gil turned his attention to Dan. "I wasn't when I grew it, and by the time I no longer needed the cover, I'd grown attached to it." He lifted his cocktail glass to Dan's Old Fashioned in a silent toast.

"Speaking of attached…," Dan purposefully looked at Gil's left hand.

Gil shrugged. "I never found the time or energy for it."

"Or motivation?"

"Hmm," he grunted noncommittally.

Dan smirked. "Mel had you well-pegged—what was it? Thirty-three years ago? Damn, how time flies."

"Ah, yes, and how is the beautiful Melanie?"

"She's great—still happily married to Chuck. They live in L.A. now. A real society gal." He rolled his eyes, but his grin betrayed his fondness for his sister. "With the kids gone, she now devotes most of her time to whatever charity event attracts the who's who of Hollywood."

The two men traded a conspiratorial grin. Melanie was Gil's first serious girlfriend in college _and_ his polar opposite. In fact, had she not been a knockout, he doubted he would have spared her a second glance. Dan understood that now, of course, but as a young adolescent who had worshipped the ground his sister's boyfriend walked on, their break-up had been difficult for him.

Early that fall, Gil received his first letter from Dan, and they continued to keep in touch sporadically over the years. Gil had attended his college graduation, his wedding, and finally, a little over ten years ago, his parents' and his wife's funerals. All three were killed in a car accident on their way back from a conference in New York where Dan's father—an appellate court judge—had been the keynote speaker. Dan had encouraged his wife to go with them to do some shopping and take in some shows, which she had loved, while he spent the weekend fishing with his young son at his family home in Cape Cod.

While losing his parents had been hard on Dan, Gil knew that losing Carol had devastated him. He remembered her as a pretty brunette with wide blue eyes and a ready smile. Dan had been deeply in love with her and told Gil a few months after her death that were it not for his son, he doubted he would get out of bed in the morning. But with his tall good looks and gregarious personality, Dan had never lacked female attention and Gil had expected that in time, he would find someone who made him as happy as Carol had.

To the best of his knowledge, it hadn't happened.

Although his fondness for Dan made him want to ask about his social life, Gil hesitated, and asked about his son instead.

"He's almost fourteen," Dan stated with a raised brow that implied further explanation shouldn't be necessary.

"Right." Gil replied, "enough said."

"Actually—" With a motion of his hand, he drew Gil's attention to a recently vacated table nearby. Both men left the bar for the more private space as he continued, "He's a great kid; quieter than he used to be, but that's to be expected. To be honest, it's a bit of a relief. Remember how talkative he was as a four-year-old?"

Chuckling, Gil took a seat across from Dan and stretched his legs. "I do."

"Until the age of thirteen, I don't think he had a thought he didn't express. He talked a mile a minute and rarely took a breath." Dan shook his head. "It drove me nuts at times. Now, I worry about what he's not telling me."

"Well, it shouldn't be a mystery. At fourteen, most of his preoccupations are likely wearing short skirts."

"I wish," Dan said emphatically. "It's part of what worries me." At Gil's questioning glance, he said, "He developed an infatuation for our next door neighbor at the Cape when he was ten or so. He told her that when he was all '_growed'_up, he'd marry her. We laughed about it at the time. I mean, what boy hasn't had a crush on an older woman? And I was even secretly proud that he had such good taste; she's very attractive." He gave Gil a brief smile, and then his expression turned serious again. "The problem is, he hasn't outgrown it. He's showing no interest in girls his age, and when we have to miss a weekend in Provincetown, he spends all his time moping around the house."

Gil absently stirred his martini as an old memory came back to him. He bit the olive off the swizzle stick then tossed the stick to the table. "He sounds like you at that age. Remember—what was her name? The, uh, buxom blonde that lived down the street from you guys?"

Dan laughed. "Suzy Cooper. She was stacked, Gil. Who says 'buxom' anymore? Anyway, it's not the same. Suzy was a twenty-year old sex goddess. Sara's close to forty."

The mere mention of that name still made something shift in Gil's chest; fortunately, the sensation wasn't as sharp as it had once been. Ignoring it with practiced ease, he squinted at Dan. "That is strange," he said, but it wasn't _that_ strange. Gil didn't say it, but as unusual as Dan's son's crush sounded, he knew it wasn't unheard of. Drawing on his experience as a criminologist, which had made him somewhat of an expert in the human psyche, he asked, "What about your social life? Have you had any serious relationships since…?"

"Since Carol died?" Dan shook his head and the shadow that crossed his face did nothing to alleviate Gil's concern. "You have to understand. What I had with Carol…that doesn't happen twice."

"It's been ten years, Dan. Ghosts don't keep your bed warm at night, and they certainly don't fulfill a boy's needs."

Staring at Gil, Dan frowned. "You think Billy's looking for a mother?"

"It's possible. He lost both his mother and his grandmother when he was four years old. Has he had any mother figure in his life other than this woman?"

"No," Dan reluctantly admitted. He frowned again. "You make a valid point. I never gave it much thought, but a couple of years ago Sara did mention something about Billy scheming to get us to spend more time together." Laughter suddenly erupted from him and he shook his head. "I can't believe this didn't this occur to me before? It makes sense. My kid found himself a mother and he's trying to make her my wife."

"How do you feel about that?"

Dan's eyes shot up in good-humored surprise. "Psychoanalysis your new passion, Gil, or was that a Freudian slip?"

Gil grimaced lightly. "Job hazard." After a brief pause, he added, "I have been concerned about your apparent lack of social life since Carol died."

"I'm fine. Of all people, I'd think you should understand. Didn't you steer clear of romantic entanglements your entire life?"

Gil lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "Not really. There's a difference between not wanting something and not knowing how to get it, or keep it when you do find it. You, on the other hand, never had a problem in that area."

Dan gave him a wry grin, emptied his glass, and waved to the waitress. "Another?" he asked.

"Sure."

When the waitress left with their drink order, Dan said, "Sara's a great gal. She inherited the place next door five years ago and turned it into a very successful Guest House. She's interesting and smart and pretty, and a very talented photographer. And she adores Billy, of course. We keep each other company."

"A paragon of virtue. So, is it that you're not in love with her, or that you're afraid to love her?"

Gil shifted in his seat as all traces of humor left Dan's face. He had spent a good part of his life interrogating people, digging into their psyche, trying to understand them, manipulating them to reveal themselves, and at times, sitting in judgment of them. It was part of the job, and after years of practice, prying into people's lives had become second nature. But his respect for his friends and colleagues had never permitted him to cross that line with them—unless his position at the lab made it necessary, and even then, it had made him uncomfortable. It was different with Dan who was seven years his junior, and while hardly an important distinction at their age, he still thought of him as the kid brother who had looked up to him as a teenager, then sought his advice as a young man.

And it worried Gil that Dan continued to hang on to his late wife's ghost.

Dan blamed it on love, the kind that happened only once in a lifetime, and while that assessment was understandable in the beginning, ten years later, Gil simply wasn't buying it. He was tempted to probe further, to lead Dan to the conclusion he had already reached, that he was letting guilt and fear stop him from moving on with his life. But the faint scowl on his friend's face kept Gil silent.

The waitress came with their drinks, providing a welcome distraction. After thanking her, Gil looked at Dan who was eyeing him speculatively with a lilting smile on his lips.

"What happened to, _'Do yourself a favor and don't come to me for advice on love'_? When did you become an expert in the human heart?"

"You're right. I'm hardly in a position to lecture you about this. I'm sorry."

"Hmm," Sitting back, Dan perched his right ankle on his left knee. A moment of silence followed, then unexpectedly, he said, "'Curator of Coleoptera'. You must be pleased with that."

"I am. I'll also be teaching, which made the position even more attractive."

"You never said why you retired from CSI."

Gil sighed regretfully. "My knees. Physically, the job just became too demanding. The only alternative was to limit myself to management, and I never really enjoyed that aspect of the job." He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "I wasn't very good at it. It was time to do something else, and with this offer came the added benefit of having more time to write."

"Ah, yes. A crime novel, Gil? That does surprise me."

"I suspect it will surprise many people. I'm keeping it quiet for now, at least until something comes of it—if something comes of it."

"I'm sure it will. Anyway, with your experience in criminology you probably have an endless pool of stories just waiting to be told." Dan made small rotations with his wrist, swirling the golden liquid in his glass. The ice cubes clinked. "Have you given any thought to where you'll live?"

Gil nodded. "I bought a condo near campus. I take possession at the end of August, so if you know of something that's available for the summer—"

Without hesitation, Dan said, "Come stay with Billy and me at the Cape. We spend most of the summer there."

With an equal lack of hesitation, Gil shook his head. "Thank you, that's very thoughtful, but—"

"Say no more," Dan interrupted. "You need peace and quiet to work on that novel of yours. At least come spend a few days with us. We're flying down in the morning. We'll be staying the week, so you can come anytime. The Cessna only seats two anyway. If you don't mind the drive, we'll be there when you get there."

"I'd like that. Listen, I do appreciate your offer, but under the circumstances, I wouldn't make a very pleasant houseguest."

"I understand. You can still drive out whenever you need a break." Dan sat back and stretched his legs. "So, tell me about your novel."

Brightening up considerably, Gil did just that.

XXXXX

THE BEGINNING OF the Cape Cod tourist season was making itself felt along the US 6 East between Truro and Provincetown. Heavy traffic was stretching the expected two-and-a-half hour trip from Boston to the tip of the Cape to more than three. But Gil didn't mind. He enjoyed the drive, the time for reflection, of which he'd had precious little since leaving his twenty-five-year career three weeks ago. He hadn't had time for regrets either, if indeed such a time would come.

But it wouldn't be today.

The July 1st sun was comfortable for someone accustomed to the smoldering heat of the desert. He didn't turn on the air-conditioning in the car, but kept his windows open to let in the salt-scented, warm breeze, and he reveled in a feeling of peace, almost foreign to him after years of restlessness.

When he arrived in Provincetown, a surprising prickle of excitement and anticipation nipped at his gut. He took Commercial Street and continued south to Harbor Drive, making a turn in the cul-de-sac where the Colton family home stood, unchanged thanks to conservation laws dating back to the Kennedy administration.

He parked behind Dan's car in the narrow driveway and looked up at the large two-story clapboard house circa 1930. It had weathered nicely to its natural silvery color over the years, and the trim was still neatly painted a deep shade of blue-gray.

Only one house stood beyond the Colton home in the cul-de-sac, a slightly larger one, Georgian Colonial in architecture. Gil noted that time had not stood still there. He remembered it as an old, rambling, and unremarkable house, unkempt in appearance, which had irritated the Coltons. Now, the flat boards sported a fresh coat of blue-gray paint, almost the shade of the trim on Dan's house. A well-tended courtyard, edged by a low-riding flagstone wall, made it look inviting yet private. Even the trees and shrubs seemed to want to cozy up to it. The sign perched at the top of an ornate wrought iron post at the mouth of the walkway identified it as '_Summerhouse'_.

Dan came out and waved. Gil pulled the trunk release lever and got out of his new Lexus.

"Heavy traffic?"

"Fourth of July weekend; I should have expected it," Gil replied as he collected his luggage from the trunk.

Dan went to his car and pulled three overstuffed bags from the back seat.

Gil snapped the trunk shut. "Did you just get here?"

"Yeah…I was called in on an emergency this morning." He glanced at the house next door, a good-natured frown marring his forehead as he hitched one bag over his shoulder and balanced two more in his left hand, closing the door with his right. "Billy," he said in an exasperated tone. "He made a beeline for Sara's the minute we got here; didn't even take a minute to bring his bag in the house."

Gil smiled and followed Dan up the driveway. Motioning towards his neighbor's house with his chin, he said, "Quite an improvement."

"Tell me about it. I was about to pressure the Mayor to do something about that place. When old Mrs. Crawford died, she left the property to her daughter, Sara's mother, but I don't think the woman ever came back after the funeral. Sara inherited it five years ago and fixed it up."

Inside, Dan dropped his bags in the foyer and Gil did the same. He followed him down the long hallway to the back of the house, past the L-shape staircase on the right and the double living-sitting room on the left. The curtains were still drawn, but from what Gil could see in the gloom, nothing had changed in ten years. Even the furniture looked the same.

By contrast, the kitchen was filled with light. Punching a number in the cordless phone, Dan indicated a stool at the large center island, which housed the cook-top and an inset butcher-block cutting board on one side, and the breakfast bar on the other.

Gil took a seat as Dan spoke into the phone. "Hi, Steph. Is Sara around?"

The kitchen was brighter than Gil remembered, but otherwise familiar with its light oak cupboards and burgundy-red countertops, their shade identical to the tiled floor. Cradling the receiver in his neck, Dan took two beers from the refrigerator, twisted off the caps, and offered one to Gil.

Dan tipped his bottle to his lips, and mid-swallow, smiled. "Hey, yourself. Busy?"

Gil only half listened to Dan's end of the conversation. His gaze took in to the row of double-hung windows with their roman shades drawn to let in the mid-afternoon light. Dan was looking out, saying, "Yeah, I see him. Did he mention we have a guest?" He looked back at Gil, hooking a thumb in the direction of his neighbor's house and mouthing, 'barbecue'?

Gil shrugged his assent as he got to his feet and wandered to the screened back door which opened onto a porch. The views of Provincetown Harbor beyond the well-tended garden and the narrow stretch of beach on the other side of the gate were quite impressive.

"Sure, we'd love to come. I'll bring the wine." Dan said. "Yeah, he's an old friend of mine, a writer—"

Unaccustomed to hearing that description of himself, Gil whirled to face Dan.

Dan winked and then his eyes grew wide. "Hey," he said, "Is the attic room done?" He listened for a beat, and then laughed. "I told you not to trust that guy. Will you ever listen to me?...Yeah, yeah. Seriously though, I just might have a customer for you… Yeah, he's looking for a quiet place to write for the summer."

Gil threw Dan a quizzical look, but Dan only brushed it off with a quick shake of his head. "Great, he can see it later," he continued. "We'll be there in…" he glanced at his watch, "…an hour okay with you?... Good. See you soon—Oh, and tell Billy to get his ass over here. He hasn't even unpacked."

After he hung up, Gil raised a brow. "What was that about?"

"How would you like to spend the summer in Provincetown, all the privacy you want, free to come and go as you please, no demands on your time?"

"Summerhouse?"

Dan nodded. "It's a good-sized suite in the attic. I call it the '_attic room_', but she doesn't like that very much. I think she calls it the '_Eagle's Nest_' or something fancy like that. Anyway, it's large and overlooks the harbor, but the best part is that it's available…well, almost available. She had a minor plumbing problem, but nothing that won't be fixed by Tuesday."

"Sounds interesting. I'll talk to her about it at dinner."

At that moment, a freckled-faced boy with a thick mop of curly, brown hair, and a mild case of adolescent acne, bounced in, banging the screen door behind him. "Dad! Sara wants us to come to dinner."

"Hey, where are your manners, young man?" Dan grabbed his son's shoulders and turned him to face Gil. "Say hello to Mr. Grissom."

Billy's fair skin flushed, and his wide blue eyes touched on Gil for the briefest moment before dropping to his feet. "Hi."

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Billy."

He looked up, surprised. "Again?"

Gil nodded. "We met when you were four years' old."

"Oh." Having evidently reached the extent of his interest in his father's old friend, Billy turned to Dan, and with the single-mindedness of youth, said, "Can we go to Sara's, Dad? Please."

"Only if you take your stuff upstairs and unpack. And bring Mr. Grissom's bags up as well. Put them in the guest room at the end of the hall. The one on the right."

"'Kay." The bounce was back in the boy's step as he took off for the front hall. Then, remembering his manners, he turned back into the room. "It was nice meeting you again, sir."

Gil smiled. "Thank you, Billy. And call me Gil."

"'Kay," he muttered before fleeing the room.

An hour later, Gil and Dan were crossing to Summerhouse's back garden by way of the beach. In his haste to get there, Billy had taken a quicker route through the dense, white cedar hedge that served as a boundary between the two properties. A tolerant Dan only shook his head in mild exasperation as Billy crawled through the man-made gap at the base of two shrubs, attesting to the boy's frequent use of the shortcut.

They entered Sara's garden through a wrought iron gate and followed the path along colorful and fragrant flowerbeds, leafy border plants and evergreens, and past secondary paths that led to a pergola and a fishpond—various 'rooms', each designed to afford Summerhouse's guests some privacy.

Gil noted that the garden and the house were as arrestingly attractive in the back as they were in the front. The only distinguishable feature between front and back was the wide patio door—obviously not part of the original architecture—on the flagstone terrace. The garden plantings extended to the terrace, bordering it with various shrubs that served as a backdrop to large terra-cotta flowerpots and several lounge chairs covered in striped navy and white fabric. A matching linen umbrella topped a rectangular table, which was elegantly dressed for four with bright yellow table linens, white porcelain dishes, crystal, and silverware.

The effect was nothing short of striking.

Dan put the wine on the table. "We need a corkscrew. Make yourself at home," he told Gil. "I'll be right back."

Alone on the terrace, Gil looked up at the guesthouse, at the row of double-hung windows on the second floor, and up higher, at the dormer windows in the gabled roof. _The Attic Room._ Although he had yet to set foot inside, his impression thus far left little doubt that there was much to recommend Summerhouse. But even without its elegance and intrinsic restfulness, having his oldest and dearest friend—the closest thing he'd had to family other than his mother—living next door made the idea of spending the summer there even more enticing.

He was wondering what a two-month stay in this east-coast paradise would cost him when an exuberant Billy bounded onto the terrace.

"Sara made my favorite!" he exclaimed as he carefully set a bowl of guacamole and a basket of tortilla chips on the table. He plopped himself into a chair and immediately dug in.

Gil went to the table and scooped up some of the avocado dip with a tortilla. He took a bite. "This is very good."

"She always makes it for me because she knows I like it."

He popped the last half of his tortilla into his mouth. "Well, from what your father tells me, she's a very nice lady."

Billy's expression turned contemplative. "I like this house much better than ours."

"Why?"

Curiosity made him ask. After what Dan had told him the night before, and what he had witnessed today, Gil suspected it was because this woman—Sara—lived in it. But he was interested in what Billy had to say.

His curiosity, however, wouldn't be satisfied. Billy only shrugged and, as if deciding he'd said enough to this stranger, proceeded to ignore him.

If Gil hadn't heard Dan's voice at the patio door just then, his interest in the boy might have incited him to probe further. But it wasn't Dan who made him forget all about Billy and his teenaged crush on an older woman. It was her laugh—so familiar it made his insides twist painfully.

And then he heard her voice. A voice he couldn't mistake for anyone else's.

She stepped out onto the terrace and he froze. When her dark eyes lifted and met his, her smile slowly died on her lips.

Gil was aware of his heart racing, his heavy breathing, his hands trembling, which he instinctly controlled by making fists. He was even vaguely aware of two other people curiously watching them. But he couldn't think of a thing to say. Under the emotional and physical assault of her unexpected appearance, his brain had ceased to function, and he couldn't recall the things he had dreamed he'd say, or do, if he ever saw her again.

Sara hauled in a sharp breath. "Grissom!"

Commanding himself to recover, to respond, he swallowed, and finally managed—

"Hello, Sara."

—and damned the tremor in his voice.


	2. Old Friends

_See disclaimer in Chapter 1. Chapter 2, Old Friends by Vplasgirl_

* * *

**Chapter 2 - Old Friends**

The distant call of a sparrow and the faint rustle of a harbor breeze through the trees echoed in the silence on the terrace. Sara was the first to recover—if one could call it that. With a muttered, "Excuse me," she spun around and went back inside.

"You two know each other?"

Gil blinked and dragged his gaze to Dan. "Oh. Yes." He swallowed and drew in a short breath. "Excuse me. I'll, uh—" He made a vague gesture in the general direction of the open patio door before leaving Dan, who looked almost as stunned as Gil felt, and Billy, who'd forgotten all about his favorite dip and was eyeing him suspiciously, to follow Sara inside.

He entered into a great room and stopped short as if he had run into a wall. Which, figuratively, he had. A stranger to the space and in many ways to Sara, he had no way of knowing where she would go for a reprieve from the shock of finding him in her back yard after all these years. His own body was still shaking from the unexpected encounter, making him haul calming breaths deeply into his lungs as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the muted light of the room.

The great room was open clear to the front foyer and wrapped around a dark oak staircase. Soft footfalls fell on the bare treads and Gil tensed, but then relaxed when he saw the young woman rounding the corner at the foot of the stairs.

"Can I help you?" Her tone was pleasant, her voice welcoming.

"I'm—" Gil assumed this was the _Steph_ Dan had spoken to earlier and was about to introduce himself when he realized his name would mean nothing to her. "I'm with Dan. I'm looking for Sara."

"Oh, you're Dan's writer friend. Sara told me we might have another guest. Did you look in the kitchen?"

Gil followed her gaze toward the solid-oak door on his right, and gave her a quick nod. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," she said, and then continued through one of the two French doors flanking an imposing stone fireplace, into a sun lit room.

Gil hauled in a breath and took tentative steps in the opposite direction. He entered the kitchen quietly.

Sara was standing at the sink, her back turned to the door. Gil could feel her tension in the way she held herself, her shoulders slumped forward, her hands fisted on either side of the sink, and in the dejected slant of her head.

The door swung noiselessly behind him and for a moment he just stood there, studying her. His gaze traveled upward from her long, tanned legs, to the gentle curve of her hips and her trim waist, and finally to her thick, dark hair, which she now wore in a slightly shorter style. And her body was curvier, softer, than he remembered.

But he still felt the old pull of attraction.

And so much more.

More than mere physical attraction. Emotions, inexplicable and deep, and so overpowering that they had zapped his will to resist her six years ago. These emotions were still there, he realized, every one of them still eating away at him, exciting him, and devastating him in equal measure. And another that had not been there before she left Las Vegas. _Anger._

In an extraordinary effort at self-preservation, he steeled himself against them all and took a small step forward, then stopped when her shoulders rose and fell with a long breath that filled the silence in the room.

"Well, you were unexpected," she said before turning around to look at him.

| MAY 2005 |

"_Well, this was unexpected. Why did you wait so long?"_

"_Because I knew if we started this, I wouldn't be able to stop."_

"_And you want it to stop?"_

"_Yes…but, God help me, right now, I need you."_

| PRESENT DAY |

Sara's chin tilted up. "Dan said you're a writer."

Gil nodded. "Among other things. He told me you're a photographer…a very talented one."

A ghost of a smile touched Sara's lips. "Among other things." And then her lips pursed in the way they did when she was teasing him, and despite his resolve to remain immune to her, something fluttered in his chest.

Their gazes locked, and before the temptation to look away, to hide from her, overwhelmed him, Gil drew a huge breath and said, "I'm sorry if this is awkward for you. I'd leave, but I'm afraid that would be more awkward for Dan."

"I don't want you to leave. I was just…surprised. I'm fine now." And, confirming the sincerity of her words, Sara went to the refrigerator, took out a platter piled high with steaks, and handed it to him. "Would you mind carrying some of the food out?"

"Not at all."

Next she gave him a dish of shitake mushroom, and then turned back to the refrigerator for a bowl of Romaine lettuce and the rest of the makings of a Caesar salad.

Gil followed her out to the terrace where Dan was pouring the wine.

"I got the barbecue going," Dan said after directing a concerned glance at them. "You can put those there, Gil," he said, indicating the wrought iron baker's rack next to the grill.

Sara set the salad on the table and ruffled a scowling Billy's hair. "I've got some fresh lemonade for you in the fridge if you want some."

"'Kay." He got up and, with his eyes on his sneakers, dragged his feet inside.

"What's with him?" Sara asked Dan.

He shrugged. "Who knows? He's a teenager. He has more moods than a woman."

"Hey!" Having expected Sara's reaction, Dan had already playfully ducked. "Be careful or you'll end up on dishes duty."

Dan laughed.

Inwardly frowning, Gil put the platters on the rack and joined them at the table. He took the glass of wine Dan offered.

Raising his glass, Dan said, "To old friends."

As they drank to the toast, Sara gave Gil a fleeting look over the rim of her glass.

"So you two know each other," Dan mused. "How—"

His question was cut short when Billy came back with the young woman Gil had spoken to earlier.

"Sara, I'm on my way if there's nothing else," she said. "The last load of laundry is in the dryer, and I managed to get that reservation for Josh and Brent. They said not to expect them back early tonight."

"Thanks, Steph. Before you go, I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine." Sara looked unwaveringly at Gil for the first time since leaving the kitchen. "Stephanie is a student at Harvard Medical School, and my right hand here during the summer."

"And this is her last one," Dan remarked with undisguised pride.

"Dan is one of Stephanie's professors," Sara explained. "She'll be beginning her residency next summer. Steph, this is Gil Grissom."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Gil, please. And the pleasure's mine."

She reached across the table and shook his hand then to Sara, said, "I aired the Attic Room and made up the bed."

"The '_Attic Room'_. Jeez! You and Dan…"

Dan winked at Stephanie and, nodding his approval, mouthed, _"The Attic Room."_

Sara noticed and sent him a good-natured scowl, then smiled at Stephanie. "Have fun tonight."

"Thanks. I intend to."

Billy, who couldn't have made his lack of interest in the adults' conversation more blatant, suddenly brightened up. "Are you going out with that guy with the motorcycle?"

"I am."

Dan raised a brow. "Again?" he asked, and he seemed about to say something else when Billy interrupted.

"Dad, I so want a trail bike. Please…"

A resounding "No," came from Dan and Sara. Then Dan chuckled and shook his head. "Billy, I told you we'd talk about it when you're old enough for a driver's license. Until then, your eighteen-speed will have to do."

"I wouldn't go on the roads…just the bush trails."

"Billy…" Dan started in a warning tone. It was obviously not the first time father and son had had this discussion; and obviously not the first time in Sara's presence.

"Fine." Billy plopped down into a chair and rebelliously crossed his arms over his chest.

"Well…I'm off," Stephanie said. "It was nice meeting you Gil. Sara, I'll see you at eight tomorrow morning."

"Have fun," Dan said jovially enough, but Gil detected a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

Stephanie must have heard it as well, for she sent him a dark look. "Thanks."

They were all quiet for a moment after Stephanie left. Dan stared at the swirling liquid in his glass as he rotated it in tight circles on the tablecloth. Billy's adolescent features were still drawn into a scowl. Sara was pensive, her dark eyes touching on nothing specific, but carefully avoiding Gil, who was trying to understand the subtext between them all.

He was very aware of his own dour mood in this suddenly introspective little group. If seeing Sara again had not unbalanced him enough, her easy and affectionate relationship with Dan had. He would never begrudge Dan anything, but as his imagination conjured up images of an intimate relationship between the two people he had felt closest to over the years, he was afflicted with a surge of possessiveness toward Sara.

In a rush to douse an uncomfortable spark of jealousy, Gil sat back and complimented Sara on Summerhouse.

"Thanks. It took a while, but I'm happy with the results. And it's a good summer business."

"What do you do in the winter?"

Her lips twisted wryly. "Renovate. This old place needed a lot of work before I could open it to the public. I did as soon as I had the common areas and two suites ready. It took me two years. After that, I could only work on the other rooms after the close of season. The room that you're—the _Attic Room,"_she quickly amended, "is the last of it."

"You're going away this winter," Billy, who was sitting on her left, stated sourly.

Sara gave him a gentle smile. "Yep. Going to miss me, buddy?"

Billy slumped in his chair and rested his left cheek on his fist as his right shoulder inched up in an unconvincing shrug. "You won't be here at Thanksgiving or Christmas." Sadness overshadowed the accusation in the boy's voice.

"I'll send your gifts."

"Won't be the same," he mumbled.

Sara glanced at Dan. "No, it won't be."

"Where are you going?" Gil asked abruptly.

"South America."

Surprised, his eyes opened wide. "Why South America?"

"I've never been."

"Sara spent time in Central America before she moved here. She's working her way south," Dan explained.

"You went to Central America after—"

Sara nodded.

"Where? How long?"

She almost looked defiant as she answered, "For the most part, Nicaragua." Then, after the briefest of hesitation, added, "I was there six months."

"And you were backpacking it through the jungle all that time?"

Her dark eyes flashed. "Excuse me?"

| JUNE 2005 |

"_Have you heard from Sara yet?"_

_Gil sighed, shook his head. "She's still not responding to my emails."_

"_Well," Catherine said, "maybe she changed her account."_

"_If the account no longer existed, I'd be getting 'undeliverable' messages back from the server. She's ignoring us, Catherine. I think it's time we accept that she's gone—for good."_

"_We?"_

"_Okay. It's time I accept it."_

| PRESENT DAY |

Gil wanted to know why she had ignored his emails, but with Dan and Billy present, it was hardly the time to confront her about it. So he reined in his temper and gave her a quick never-mind shake of the head, then poured what was left of his wine down his throat.

As soon as he returned the glass to the table, Dan refilled it. "I'm more and more intrigued. How did you two meet?"

Aware of Billy's laser-sharp scrutiny, Gil happily let Sara fill in the blanks for Dan. In truth, he was more than a little intrigued that she hadn't mentioned her past as a Vegas CSI to them. If she had, Dan would have guessed they knew each other a long time ago.

Meeting her eyes, Gil raised a challenging brow.

"I attended one of…_Gil's_ lectures at Berkeley a few years ago," she said, referring to him by his Christian name for the first time in twelve years. Even in their most intimate moments she had called him Grissom or Gris. He noticed her slight hesitation, then the deliberate way she said it, as if demarcating their relationship between the now and then. But he didn't have time to over-analyze her rationale for, without missing a beat, she added, "I'm more interested in how you two met."

"Gil used to date my sister."

Her eyes flickered to Gil. "Melanie?"

Dan chuckled. "Go figure, right?"

Sara frowned. "Yeah, I guess."

Feeling the need to defend himself, Gil said, "She was—" and couldn't think of a way to finish that thought in Sara's presence.

"Stacked, Gil. Or do you prefer 'buxom'."

Gil sent Dan a dangerous look. "Thanks."

"Anytime, my friend."

Sara fixed Gil with a soft, contemplative look, but said nothing. In the ensuing silence, Gil noticed Dan looking at Sara in a similar way, and knew that her quick change of subject had not fooled him. He would have questions, many questions for both of them, and preferring the third degree later rather than now, Gil was relieved when Billy announced he was hungry.

"You're always hungry," Dan said, glancing at his watch. "But I suppose I should get those steaks on the grill." He went over to the barbecue, calling back, "How do you want yours done, Gil?"

"Rare."

"Sara likes hers medium rare, Dad."

"I know how Sara likes hers, son.

Gil threw Sara a stunned look. "Sara?" With deliberate calm she met his gaze directly. "You eat meat now?"

She shrugged. "It didn't seem fair to dismiss an entire animal species because of a pig."

Amused, Gil smiled, but he was inwardly frowning at the changes in her. He wondered which Sara was real; the one he had known for twelve years, or the woman sitting across the table from him now, a teasing smile on her lips, a challenging look in her dark eyes, both of which faltered when Dan turned from the grill, brow raised.

"You were a vegetarian, Sara?"

"For a while."

Dan considered this for a moment, but didn't pursue the matter. He refocused on the steaks while Gil and Sara exchanged a conspiratorial glance. Six years apart hadn't completely killed their ability to occasionally read each other's thoughts, and their thoughts were clearly communicating that it was time once again to change the subject.

"So, kiddo, find yourself a girlfriend yet?"

Groaning, Billy dropped his forehead to the table. With a laugh, Sara playfully ruffled his dark curls.

XXXXX

DINNER WAS PLEASANT, if a little stressful for Gil. Billy's sullen mood—which Dan and Sara ignored with outward aplomb—was bothering him. He felt the boy's dislike every time he had Sara's attention, which was pretty much all the time. Sara was a good hostess. She asked about his new position at Harvard and the book he was writing, and after a couple of brief, obscure responses about the book, she steered the conversation in yet another direction. She told him the history of the house, the condition she found it in when she inherited, and recounted some of her more entertaining renovation stories. By the time they finished a light desert of strawberry sorbet, no one would have guessed there had ever been any tension between them.

But it was still there for Gil, like a constant knot in his belly. He was supremely aware of her, as though they were physically connected. He could feel her, every shift in her body, every breath she took. It was disorienting, and he had to constantly be on his guard, force himself to focus on the conversation. And then, in an unguarded moment, he glanced up at her and caught her studying him between her thick lashes, her gaze dark and intense, and it knocked the breath from him.

Sara blushed and her eyes flickered away. Flustered, Gil asked where the bathroom was.

"First door on the right as you go in," she said, and then glancing at her watch, she rose to her feet and started gathering the dirty dishes. "Would you like a tour of the place?"

"Sure," Gil said, his voice only faltering slightly as he recalled Dan's suggestion that he stay at Summerhouse for the summer. What had seemed like an ideal solution to a problem earlier was now a problem in itself.

"I'll meet you inside in a couple of minutes," Sara said as she continued stacking dishes.

Dan got up and stilled her hands. "You go ahead and leave these to me."

"I'll go with Sara," Billy said.

"Not so fast young man," Gil heard Dan say as he entered the house. "You're going to help with the dishes."

Billy's disagreeable, "Da-ad," was the last Gil heard of the conversation as he locked himself in the small bathroom, and stayed there longer than necessary while trying to get his bearings. He finally let himself out when he heard the clattering of dishes and Dan's distant voice from the kitchen. Sara joined him from the front hall desk and immediately assumed her 'hostess of the manor' role.

"That powder room is a new addition," she explained. "Originally, this was all part of the kitchen, right up to the patio doors. I didn't need such a large kitchen, but I did need a larger living room, so I opened up the space to create this great room."

Sara palmed a tall, round column, painted white and with decorative trim at its base and top. "Unfortunately this was a load-bearing wall, which is why we added these columns. I wasn't thrilled about breaking up the room in the beginning, but I like it now. It gave me two spaces to work with. There's a television in every room, but the guests like to come down here to watch sometimes, or play board games, and it doesn't interfere with the people who prefer more quiet." Gil followed her past the columns and the patio door into the other section of the room. With a sweep of her hand, Sara indicated the old grand piano. "We're sometimes lucky enough to have a guest who plays and the others gather 'round to listen. It's turned into some fun evenings."

"Do you play?"

She looked at him and then twisted her lips in a grimace. "Not well."

"Hmm… Somehow I can't imagine you doing anything badly."

Sara blushed at the compliment. She threw him a bashful look and thanked him, then hauled in an audible breath before continuing on her tour, leading him through the French door on the left side of the fireplace.

"This is also a new addition," she said of the screened-in porch that ran the depth of the house. "You'll notice that the eaves extend out quite a bit. It keeps the rain out as long as there's no wind blowing it in. All the furniture in here is water proof just in case." She let her hand trail over the back of a rattan armchair as she crossed the room past the protruding stone wall to the second French door on the other side of the chimney.

Gil looked closely at the door as they crossed the threshold back into the great room, noticing that it was an exterior door. "You close it up in the winter?"

"Yes. I replace all the screens with windows and shut it up. It cuts on heating costs. I don't need the extra space in the winter anyway." They crossed the room to the front entry where an antique desk sat perpendicular to the door. Other than a small bell, a laptop computer, and a telephone, the dark wood surface was bare. "Here," Sara continued, pointing towards an arch in the wall near the front entrance "is the dining room." She flipped the light-switch and an imposing antique chandelier came to life setting the ceiling ablaze.

"Wow."

Sara smiled. "It's real, and original to the house," she said of the gleaming copper ceiling. Its intricate design gave the room a rustic elegance. "It had fifty years of accumulated grime on it."

"You restored it yourself?"

"Yes."

"I'm impressed."

She blushed again and pointed to a wood paneled door at the far end of the large room. It said 'Private' in small brass letters. "Through there is the kitchen. Unlike many B&Bs I prefer to keep it off-limits to guests."

He followed her out of the dining room up the central staircase. "Why?"

"A couple of reasons, but mainly because my bedroom is right off the kitchen. Plus, as you saw earlier, it's not very big, so I don't want people getting in the way when I'm getting breakfast ready."

"You only serve breakfast?"

She nodded. "Yes."

At the top of the stairs, she turned right down a long corridor. As in the rest of the house, the floors were a dark, rich hardwood. A long antique rug ran the length of it, muting their footsteps. At the end of the corridor was a set of glass-paneled doors that opened onto a small balcony atop the front portico. He imagined it would let in a lot of light during the day. Decorative wall sconces next to each room dimly illuminated the hallway now.

"I won't be able to show you the rooms since they're all occupied," she said. "There are four of them on this floor, each with an en-suite bathroom."

This surprised Gil. "It must have cost you a small fortune in plumbing."

"It did. Nothing I would have been able to afford if I'd had to buy the house. I took a mortgage on it and hired an architect to redesign the space. This whole floor was gutted. Originally, there were six decent-sized bedrooms and one very large bathroom."

She opened the last door at the end of the hall and flipped the light switch which simultaneously started an exhaust fan. It was a small, windowless room, not much bigger than an average walk-in closet. A bar-sized refrigerator, a mini water cooler, a microwave oven, a coffee maker, and a toaster filled the wall of counter space.

"That's how I can keep guests out of the kitchen," Sara said with a smile.

Standing close to her in the doorway, Gil noticed that not everything about Sara had changed. Her hair still carried a light musky scent, captured and held in a halo of semi-sweet, semi-tart citrus, a fragrance which was utterly feminine and uniquely her. He knew her scent intimately; his body had responded to it well before his scientific mind had processed the power of pheromones and their addictive quality. Sara's scent was like a drug to him, one he had resisted with difficulty for a long time, and then having tasted, had been deprived of for six years.

Their gazes locked and for a moment, Gil felt lightheaded. He felt her on a physical rather than emotional plane now, aware of her long legs, smooth skin, and taut, curvy behind. He remembered how her naked body had melded to his, the feel of her breasts crushed against his chest, the taste of her, and the euphoria he had experienced between her soft thighs.

Before her, he had only known of such ecstasy from books, and he ached for it again. He ached for her so badly that he shoved his hands deep into his pockets to stop himself from touching her.

Sara inhaled sharply and switched off the light. Gil took a step back as she closed the door abruptly then turned and crossed the hall to another door. She took a key out of the right pocket of her denim shorts and said in a businesslike tone, "This is the Eagle's Nest suite. It's yours if you want it."


	3. Destiny

_See disclaimer in Chapter 1. Chapter 3, Destiny by Vplasgirl._

* * *

**Chapter 3 - Destiny**

Gil stood behind Sara as she unlocked the door to the Eagle's Nest suite. They stepped onto the landing at the bottom of a long flight of stairs.

"This stairwell looked like a tunnel, it was so dark," Sara said. She drew his attention to a skylight carved into the roof, a small, glass dome a good twenty feet above the landing. "The architect suggested the skylight and it solved the problem."

Now, the stairwell was artificially lit by a series of electric candles mounted on each side of the stairs. Gil followed her up, his gaze helplessly drawn to her long, shapely legs and the gentle sway of her hips. He wondered what she would say if he told her he still wanted her. That he had never stopped wanting her. Would she invite him to her bed, without question, as she had done on her last day in Vegas? Or would she give him the brush-off, telling him that she was involved with someone else?

With Dan.

Dan had adamantly denied a romantic relationship with her, which had been reassuring until Gil witnessed their openly affectionate behavior toward each other. Even if they weren't involved in the true sense of the word, it wasn't unheard of for close friends to become lovers, especially when they were attractive and unattached. He wondered if Dan and Sara had crossed that line between friendship and sexual intimacy.

The thought sat heavily on Gil's chest. It wasn't as if he had lived a monk-like existence these past six years—although by current standards, most men would say he had. A couple of opportunities had presented themselves; women attractive enough to bed, but with whom he had nothing in common. They were brief affairs that had left him unsatisfied and yearning for something more.

Someone else.

Sara.

She was already at the top of the stairs. Undisguised pride lighted her face as she waited for him to climb the last two steps into the room.

Gil stood beside her and focused, then quickly smiled his approval. The entire floor had been converted into a private retreat with an area for sleeping, one for lounging, and one for working. A contrasting palette of dark wooden furniture and floorboards and pale walls and linens, created a soothing and elegant ambience. Between two of the three dormer windows, there was a tall plant that reached almost to the ceiling and an antique settee that looked comfortable enough to sleep on. Built-in bookshelves flanking a large wooden desk made the room look like a cozy den.

Gil stepped over to the desk, drawn to a large black and white photograph mounted on the wall above it. It was of a young boy holding a butterfly. "One of yours?"

"Yes."

"It's very good."

"Thanks." Sara came to stand beside him. "I was walking through this small village on the Pacific Coast of Nicaragua when I saw him. He was playing with a stick, in the dirt, in front of his house—" She glanced at Gil, a pained twist to her lips. "If you can call it that. It was no more than a hut with a tin roof. By that time I was used to the poverty, but there was something about him, something in his eyes…grief or loneliness, something that just tugged at my heart. I focused my camera and just as I was about to take his picture, this butterfly came and landed in his hand. All of a sudden, it was as if he'd been transformed."

"You captured the transformation very well," Gil said softly. Sara smiled but didn't say anything. She probably thought he was giving her lip service, but he wasn't. Something had drawn him to the boy in the photograph as well, and now he knew what it was. What she had captured in the boy's features, in his eyes, was that precise moment between despair and complete happiness. Whether it had been a fluke, or she was really this good, he couldn't tell.

"I didn't see any of your other works around the house," he continued as he moved away from the desk to one of the windows. Looking down, he saw Dan and Billy in the light of the terrace. Billy was sitting in a slouch on the patio ledge; Dan was scrubbing the grill.

"Most of them are packed up. I'm having my first exhibit in Truro next weekend."

Surprised and proud for her, Gil turned and leaned back against the wall. "An exhibit. You're doing well."

"I guess." Sara shrugged in a familiar show of humility. "It's not a big deal, just a small town showing." She glanced at the photograph of the boy again. "I'm keeping this one."

Since she was so obviously attached to the photograph of the boy, Gil wondered why she'd hung it in a guest room rather than her own room, or somewhere she could see it all the time.

"The bathroom's through here," she gestured as she started across the room. Gil pushed himself away from the wall and followed her to a door on the left side of the bed. "Excuse the mess," she said as she opened the door. "I had a leak and a bad plumber. It'll be fixed by Tuesday."

The bathroom was also large and airy, done in natural tones. The fixtures were white, the cabinets finished in a high polish, dark wood. A glass-enclosed shower stall contributed to the feeling of open, wide space. As in the rest of the house, Sara obviously hadn't spared any expense in this room, and he wondered again at the cost of a two-month stay at Summerhouse. Not that he needed to worry about money. By most standards he was well off, never having had much time or opportunity to spend what he'd earned most of his life. The sale of his Vegas townhouse alone had earned him enough to outright buy the Boston condominium without making much of a dent in his savings. So, while extravagant, two months at Summerhouse wasn't something he couldn't afford—financially speaking. The emotional cost of being this close to her for an extended period of time—as alluring as that sounded at the moment—was an entirely different matter.

Gil pretended interest in the room as he pondered what could be motivating her to offer him a place under her roof. He was intimately acquainted with the many facets of Sara's personality, as contradictory as they might be, so barring her quitting her job and completely disappearing from his life without so much as a goodbye, she had stopped surprising him a very long time ago.

Until tonight.

She was leaning in the doorway, her arms crossed, silently watching him, and he wondered what she was thinking. Her eyes gave little away other than kindness and warmth, both of which had been present all evening. After the initial shock of their encounter, she even seemed genuinely pleased to see him again, and that more than anything confused him.

For years, he had attributed her silence to anger. But nothing in her behavior tonight even hinted at it. Not that Sara had ever held a grudge longer than a day, let alone six years, and he really shouldn't be looking a gift horse in the mouth. Still, her kindness was putting him on edge.

Fighting against an inexplicable rush of anger, Gil abruptly pointed to the bathtub with a jerky motion of his hand. "Nice piece."

She pursed her lips—in amusement, he thought—and he suddenly felt completely exposed. Had she always seen through him, past the veneer to the feelings he had gone to great lengths to hide from her?

He had to force himself to hold her gaze.

"It's an Asian soaking tub. Very elegant, I thought, but I'm told it's also very comfortable." She pushed herself off the doorjamb and went back into the suite. Gil followed, turning off the light and closing the door behind him. Standing in the middle of the room, she spread her arms in an all-encompassing motion. "So?"

"So?"

"Do you want it?"

"Sara…do you really want me to live here?"

The question seemed to surprise her. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

And suddenly he understood that her motives weren't personal. Sara was a businesswoman who had obviously invested a lot of money in this suite, so of course she would want it to start paying off as soon as possible. Whether she let it to him or someone else didn't matter to her. She didn't care.

It was a sobering thought.

Grimly he said, "I thought you might find it awkward."

"You mean because of our past?"

He nodded.

"Grissom—" She let out a breath and shook her head, smiling. "Look, it's been six years. We were friends once; I'd like to think we could be again." And then, as if coming to some realization of her own, her eyes widened and her smile slowly faded. "Oh. You would be uncomfortable. Listen, I'm not still pining away for you, if that's what's you're worried about—"

"Trust me, it's not."

Sara visibly flinched at the harshness in his tone, but her voice betrayed nothing when she pressed on. "If you'd rather keep your distance, I understand." Tongue-in-cheek, she added, "I'm rather used to it."

Gil bit off a scathing retort and counted to ten. He knew she only wanted to lighten the mood, but under the circumstances it was absolutely the wrong thing to say to him. He had searched for her for six months after she left; called every lab in the country; sent emails—to which she had never bothered replying. So she was traipsing through a third world country; she still had access to email. She had confirmed it at dinner. That was how she learned of her mother's death—an email from her brother. Gil would concede to keeping his distance from her for a long time, and with good reason, but in the end, she was the one who cut all ties. "We'd better get back before Billy sends a search party," he said abruptly.

Sara chuckled. "You're right." She switched off the lights and he followed her down the stairs. "About the room, Gris, seriously, I'll understand if you'd rather not take it. But I can hold it for a few more days if you'd like to think about it. At this time of year the most I could hope for is the odd overnight traveller anyway. People usually reserve months in advance for vacations."

She held the door for him at the bottom of the stairs, and then turned to lock it. As they made their way down the corridor, she gave him a light, playful shove with her shoulder. "If you do decide to take it, you can rest assured that I won't be sneaking into your room in the middle of the night."

"Funny girl," he said, shooting her a wry glance he hoped hid his distress.

"That's me."

Sara took the last flight of stairs down to the main floor with an extra zip in her step, and for a moment she reminded Gil of the girl he had first met at Berkeley. The girl she was before she came to Las Vegas—at his insistence. The beautiful, confident, and joyful girl she had been before he selfishly crushed her spirit, gradually destroying the very things that had most attracted him to her.

Sara was happy again; she even seemed to like him, the way she had in the beginning, and he should be grateful for that. Yet as he followed her out to the terrace, back to Dan and Billy, he found himself wishing she were a little less happy. And he hated himself for it.

XXXXX

"BILLY'S SLEEPING ALREADY," Dan said as Gil joined him on the porch; he handed Gil a snifter of Cognac.

It was still early, barely ten o'clock, but Dan hadn't wanted to keep Sara up too late since she had to be up at five-thirty in the morning to prepare breakfast for her guests. Except for the pastries, which she purchased at the local bakery, she prepared the rest of the meal herself. According to Dan, it was an elaborate affair worthy of Summerhouse's five-star rating. Stephanie would come in at eight to help with the service, and then return at one to make up the rooms. But Sara handled everything else, including some of the lighter garden chores.

An early evening had suited Gil just fine. He had a lot to process and would have preferred retiring to his room immediately, but Dan had insisted on a nightcap and it would have been impolite to refuse. It also would have served little purpose other than to postpone the inevitable discussion about Sara.

Dan lit a cigar and took a couple of healthy drags before lowering himself into one of the Adirondack chairs on the wide porch. The rich aroma of the cigar teased Gil's nostrils; it was not unpleasant. Sitting back, he inhaled deeply, and for a while they were both silent as they sipped their liqueur with only the sounds of crickets and Provincetown Harbor filling the night.

"So she attended one of your seminars." As if reluctant to mar the peacefulness of the night, Dan spoke quietly. Still, Gil tensed.

"Yes."

"Since I doubt you were teaching techniques on getting beetles to sit still for pictures, I'd say Sara's been keeping secrets."

"Evidently."

"That's all you're going to say?"

"They're not my secrets to tell. You should talk to Sara."

Dan considered him for a moment. "Yeah, you're right." He shifted in his chair and stretched his legs. "So, care to share _your_ secrets?"

"What makes you think I have any?"

Dan chuckled. "Doctors have to be as observant as CSIs, Gil. There's very little I miss. For example, you were up in that room a long time tonight."

Gil grimaced. He wished he knew whether he was speaking to an interested friend, or a jealous lover. Part of him craved an objective perspective regarding his relationship with Sara, the same way he'd often welcomed Catherine's, even if he had pretended otherwise. But if he was dealing with the jealous lover, he had to be careful about how much he revealed. He doubted Dan would react well to the truth.

Gil didn't respond. It wasn't as if Dan had asked a direct question. He had simply made an observation. Giving the amber liquid in his snifter a good swirl, Gil tipped the glass to his lips and downed the rest of the Cognac. A long sigh cooled the fire in his throat. "Do you have more of this?" he asked as he rose.

"On the kitchen counter. Bring the bottle."

When Gil returned half a minute later, he refilled both glasses and recorked the bottle. "You have good taste in Cognac and in women," he remarked as he set the tear-shaped bottle on the floor between them. It wasn't an idle comment, and it wasn't precipitated by Dan's extra old Courvoisier. He had until Thursday to decide whether he was moving to Summerhouse for the remainder of the summer and he needed more information to make that decision. There was no way in hell he would stick around if Dan and Sara were romantically involved. The mere thought of them sleeping together was sitting in his stomach like a ball of lead.

Dan's head jerked up. "By 'women' I'll assume you're referring to Carol."

"Who else?"

Dan shook his head. "Well, I agree on all counts." He lifted his glass, admiring the amber liquid in the dim light coming from the kitchen. "Cognac, Carol…" After another draw, he blew on the glowing tip of his cigar. "And let's not forget a good cigar."

"It's the cigar that'll kill you," Gil joked, aware that they were moving away from the subject.

"We all have our weaknesses." Glancing at Gil, Dan flicked the ashes in the pedestal ashtray by his chair. "What's yours, or need I ask?"

Taking his time, Gil sipped at his drink, and then carefully said, "Rollercoasters and…Sara." He met Dan's gaze. "Not necessarily in that order."

"Ah…finally, we're getting somewhere. Nothing like a good Courvoisier to loosen the tongue."

"And a good friend." Gil rose and went to the screened door. As he looked out at the flickering harbor lights, he steeled himself for the question he needed to ask. "What is your relationship with her?"

"I told you last night."

Gil turned to face his friend. "I know what you told me, but I still have questions."

Dan drew on his cigar lazily, exhaled the smoke. "You're wondering if I slept with her."

"Yes."

"I won't lie to you and say it never came up, but no, I never slept with her."

Gil let out a long, silent breath. Weak with relief, he went back to his chair and sat forward, raking his fingers through his hair. "Okay."

Dan stared at him for a moment, and then stubbed his cigar in the ashtray. "There's a whole lot of history between the two of you. That's no mystery. I figured that one out the minute you laid eyes on her. But—and I'll use language that as a writer you can appreciate—it's like I've reached the big cliffhanger at the end of a chapter and I want to turn the page to find out what happens next, but the page is missing."

"It's a long story."

Dan reached for the bottle and poured. "We've got all night."

Having already consumed well beyond his usual quota of alcohol for one day, Gil stared into his glass and frowned. He remembered his last over-indulgence in the bottle quite well. It was on December 31st, 2005. He celebrated New Year's Eve at home with a bottle of Bourbon and old movies on television. At five minutes to midnight, he switched the channel to a network broadcast of the New Year's count down from New York's Times Square, refilled his glass with what was left of the Bourbon, checked his email one last time, and then as Auld Lang Sine swelled into his living room, toasted his New Year resolution and deleted Sara's email address from his computer. It was a symbolic gesture—her address was already committed to memory—but he never broke that resolution.

As tempting as alcohol-induced oblivion was tonight, the memory of his last hangover made Gil put his glass down on the side table, untouched. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "She used to work for me."

"As a CSI?"

"Yes."

"So…what happened?"

"She quit."

"Why?"

Gil turned his head languidly to glance at Dan. "I'm not entirely sure. I had to let one person go because of a budget cut. Sara was safe; she had seniority. My rookie, Greg, was the one on the chopping block and everybody knew it. This kid was our DNA specialist, and he was so enthusiastic about becoming a CSI that he took a pay cut to do it. He was good, a quick learner. I hated to have to lay him off, but as it turned out, I didn't have to. Sara volunteered to go in his place."

"She sacrificed her career for this kid?"

"She liked Greg, so I don't doubt it was one of the perks of resigning, but I don't think she did it for him. She said she'd been questioning her career choice for a while and she viewed the budget cut as an opportunity to leave without disrupting the team."

"Didn't you try to talk her out of it?"

Gil sighed. "I tried. She gave me compelling reasons for quitting." Shooting Dan a wry grin, he added, "And I can't tell you what they are without divulging her secrets."

"Fair game. But you said you're not entirely sure why she left. Do you think there was more to it than what she told you?"

"About a week before she resigned, a member of our team was abducted and buried alive. We found him just in time. A few minutes later—" Gil scrubbed his hand down his face. "Anyway, it was rough on all of us and it affected each of us in different ways. It was a well-orchestrated act of retribution against CSI. This madman staged a crime and waited for one of us to show up. Nick drew the short straw." Gil lapsed into silence as he remembered the fear, the anger, the helplessness, but mostly, he remembered the guilt. "He put a camera in the coffin so we could watch Nick suffocate to death. And as worried and angry and powerless as I felt, I couldn't help thanking God that it wasn't Sara in there."

"So you did have more than a professional relationship with her."

Gil let out a long breath. "Not until that night." Suddenly the porch was too small; too confining. "I need some air," Gil said as he stood and restlessly paced to the screened door. The beach, bathed in the quiet moonlight, beckoned him. "I'm going for a walk."

Dan rose and stretched. "Okay. I'll leave the porch light on for you. I'm turning in. We can finish this conversation when you feel up to it."

"Yeah. Goodnight Dan."

XXXXX

THE BEACH WAS deserted at the western end of Provincetown, quiet except for the gentle waves lapping the shore. A mile-long breakwater at the tip of which was Long Point Beach protected the shoreline. Gil had frequently walked the sandy Breakwater Trail to Long Point Lighthouse the summer he visited Melanie's family. Once or twice, Melanie had joined him, but most of the time he went alone or with Dan. Even as a young college student, he had preferred the seclusion of Long Point to the summer rowdiness of Provincetown. Melanie hadn't shared his love of solitude. He wanted stargazing, quiet strolls, and holding hands while watching the tide roll in. She wanted the spotlight, the lively, drunken beach parties, public necking, and quasi-public quickies in some rich kid's aft-cabin boat.

She had called it living. He had called it a waste of time. She told him he wasn't normal. He simply shrugged. At the end of that crazy summer they parted on good terms stating irreconcilable differences.

From across the harbor, the flickering light of the Long Point lighthouse reminded Gil that he had walked far enough. Turning back, he thought of old Mrs. Crawford, Sara's grandmother. He didn't have a clear image of her, more of an impression of her; lips set in permanent disapproval, eyes, dark and suspicious, a smoker's voice. Melanie had called her Mrs. Crabapple.

He had spoken to her only once. She was out in her front garden tending to a rose bush, the only shrub she hadn't let grow wild. The soil around it was clear of weeds, dark, and rich, while everywhere else the weeds had invaded, zapping the strength and beauty out of the garden. Gil had wondered about the significance of the rose bush. Inquisitive, even then, but especially studious of human behavior, he stopped by to compliment her on them. She had looked up at him, given him a once over, and pointed her sheers at him, punching the air in front of him as she spoke.

"I know who you are. You're the young man who's sniffing around the Colton girl. I know your type."

"What type is that ma'am?"

Turning back to her roses, she said, "Dogs, the lot of you. Predators."

Gil had quietly retreated and stayed away from her after that.

He wondered now if Sara had ever visited her grandmother as a child. She would have been seven or eight years old that summer. He searched his memory for images of a young, curly brown-haired girl hanging around the old house, but came up empty. Gil had never believed in destiny, in some grand plan beyond human power or control that determined a person's lot in life. But what were the odds that twenty years later he would meet Mrs. Crawford's granddaughter three thousand miles across the country? That she would fascinate him? That he would fall in love with her, lose her, and then find her again living next door to his best friend? Was it mere coincidence or…divine intervention?

Scoffing at himself—his faith had always been in science—Gil picked up his pace and, without conscious thought, found himself at Summerhouse's back gate. There was a light in the yard that hadn't been there earlier. It came from an area to the right of the terrace, almost hidden by the shrubs behind the fishpond. He shifted to get a better view and through the foliage, suddenly, he saw her—glimpses of her lying supine in a lounge chair. She was wearing a short white robe; the long, pale column of her throat and her exquisite legs gleamed in the soft light of the patio.

With one hand on the gate, Gil longingly gazed at Sara—fighting the urge to go to her. Nothing had changed, he mused. He was still torn between his desire for her and a compulsive need to protect himself. He swore softly under his breath. What cruel hand had fate dealt him that he would be put through that agony again?

Teeth clenched, he abruptly let go of the gate.

"Are you going to stand there all night?"

Gil flinched, and then remained very still, hovering between regret and relief that a decision had been taken out of his hands, but also embarrassment at having been caught in an act of voyeurism. Sucking in a breath, he pushed the gate open and strode up the stone path to the house, veering right across a patch of lush lawn, then skirting the fishpond to the small patio beyond.

"It's late. I thought you were asleep." It was only a little white lie.

"I should be," Sara said softly. "What brings you out at this time of night?"

"I went for a long walk."

"Mmm…this stretch of beach is peaceful at night. Did you go up to Fisherman's Wharf?"

He shook his head. "Only as far as Long Point lighthouse."

"Right. You would know it having been here before." She shifted her legs to one side of the chaise, making room for him. "Would you like to sit down?"

Gil nervously glanced at his watch. "Don't you have to be up in five hours?"

"I don't need much sleep."

"Some things _don't_ change."

Sara responded with an eyebrow shrug and a cursory smile. Then, "You can drag a chair over from the terrace if you prefer."

"This is fine." He slowly lowered himself to the edge of the chaise, facing her, then leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. "Dan had questions about you."

Sara sighed. "I figured."

"Why didn't you tell him?"

"Would you believe it never came up?" He shot her a doubtful look. "I didn't lie to him. He assumed I was a photographer and I didn't correct that assumption."

"Why?"

Her mouth curved charmingly. "Fewer questions."

"Hmm." Gil pursed his lips, amused by her not so subtle message. He had a long list of questions to which he wanted—needed—answers, but they could wait. At the moment, he was much more intrigued by what she was wearing to ruin it with difficult questions. This close, he now saw that her short robe was semi-sheer and embroidered with shimmering white roses. It was loosely tied at her waist; the softly parted lapels revealed the white satin gown underneath, its neckline falling in a vee to the top of her breasts. The fabric would be soft to the touch, he knew, as smooth and soft as her skin…

When she crossed her arms over her chest, Gil realized he had been staring. His gaze shifted up and locked with hers. Her eyes were warm—gentle even as she looked at him, and he wondered if she had any regrets.

Another question he couldn't bring himself to ask.

He breathed deeply, evenly, willing his heartbeat to settle. It required a great deal of effort since she was close enough that he could feel her heat—smell her, her unique scent mingling with that of the blooming rose bushes hedging the patio.

Clearing his throat, he focused on the roses. "I met your grandmother once."

"I know. She wasn't very nice to you."

Startled, his eyes darted back to her. "How do you know?"

"I was watching." His mouth gaped in stunned silence. "You met me too—sort of. I didn't know your name, and until tonight, I didn't even know it was you."

He shook his head. "Are you sure? I'm almost positive there was no one else there."

"I was in the house watching from the dining room window. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but I knew it wasn't nice. I remember she kept pointing her garden sheers at you. I thought for sure she was going to hurt you. I was so mad at her. I told her you were nice to me, and that's when she lost it. I wasn't allowed to leave the yard again until my parents came to pick me up a couple of days later."

Gil felt a prickling sensation up his spine. Shaking it, he said, "She did call me a few choice names."

Sara's face twisted in embarrassment. "My grandmother was a little nutso. I didn't even know her until that summer. I'd never met her. And then my parents left me here while they attended a B&B Association conference in Boston. Not the best time in my life." She shot him an insipid look. "In retrospect, not the worst either."

"God, Sara. I'm sorry, I don't— How did _we_ meet?"

She smiled as she remembered. "You were playing Frisbee on the beach—probably with Dan," she mused, and then shrugged. "I was hiding behind a sand dune, crying because some neighborhood kids said I was ugly. Anyway, the Frisbee landed at my feet and when you came to get it you asked me what was wrong. You wouldn't leave until I told you. I never forgot what you said."

"What did I say?" he asked softly.

Her eyes darted away for a moment as a dark, embarrassed flush colored her cheeks. "You said that I shouldn't pay attention to those boys because they wouldn't know beauty if they tripped over it. And then you said that I was the most beautiful girl you'd ever seen. I never forgot that 'cause, it was the first time someone told me I was beautiful."

Sara looked away as Gil's heart did a slow tumble to his gut. His throat tightened. There had been several moments in their past when he had wanted to hold her so desperately his body shook from it. This was such a moment, and he fought it—as hard as he always had.

Her mood suddenly lifted and she smiled dreamily as she continued. "I'd sit for hours by that back gate waiting for you to walk by just so I could look at you. And I did see you once; you were with a girl. Melanie, I guess. You were holding her hand and she was so beautiful that I knew you'd lied to me. But I pretended that you hadn't and I held on to the fantasy for a very long time."

"I didn't lie."

With an amused grin, she said, "You don't even remember."

"No, and I wish I did, but I'm sure I was telling the truth because you're still the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

Something flickered in Sara's eyes. She let out a throaty laugh. "Well, you can still bring on the charm, Dr. Grissom," she said as she glanced at her watch. "Look at the time; I really should try to get some sleep. Five-thirty will come fast."

Gil felt a rush of disappointment. He would gladly have spent the rest of the night talking to her. "I shouldn't have kept you up this late. I'm sorry."

"You didn't keep me up," she said as she rose. "It's been really wonderful seeing you again, Grissom, and in light of everything…a little spooky, don't you think?"

"Hmm." More than a little spooky, he thought. He was still overwhelmed by everything that had happened since that afternoon, but he was especially so by what she had just told him. He wanted to quiet that little voice in his head that whispered _'destiny'_, but he couldn't shake it. "I decided to take the _Attic Room_," he blurted out, "if you still want me here."

"Of course," she said looking mildly surprised. "The room will be ready on Wednesday."

"I'll be staying with Dan for a few more days, and then I have to go back to Boston for the rest of my things, so I probably won't be back until next weekend."

"That's great."

"Goodnight, Sara. Sleep well."

"Thank you. You too."

Well, that's that, Gil thought as he headed for his own bed. _Who am I to fly in the face of destiny?_


	4. 4th of July

See disclaimer in Chapter 1. Chapter 4, 4th of July by Vplasgirl.

* * *

**Chapter 4 - 4th of July**

The fourth of July dawned peacefully in the Colton household, but there was an undercurrent of festivity in the air when Dan started packing iceboxes for his traditional Independence Day dinner aboard his boat.

Two days had passed since Gil's midnight rendezvous with Sara. Two days and three restless nights thinking about her, aching for her, and then berating himself for his precarious control over his emotions when she was in his proximity. He'd let the moonlight and fantastic notions about destiny cloud his judgment, and made a rash decision about his living arrangements for the next few weeks.

Belatedly, he had thought about what he wanted, about whether he could risk getting close to Sara again. Meanwhile, he had purposely stayed away from Summerhouse, using an overactive muse as his excuse for spending most of his time in his room, all the time knowing that he wasn't writing one word that wouldn't be erased later. And then, late at night when the house was quiet, he would go out to the porch, his gaze predictably drawn to the gleam of light shining up from the small patio off Sara's bedroom, and he would picture her lying there in the moonlight, wondering if this was a nightly ritual for her, or if she was waiting for him. When the inevitable temptation to cross the yard became too strong, he would retire to his room.

That he still desired her was hardly surprising. He had never stopped. Even as, over time, feelings of love faded, Sara continued to fill his thoughts. He had never forgotten that one night of bliss with her—so of course, he wanted to repeat the experience. But when she wasn't there, in the flesh, tempting him, his memories of months of heartbreak made him want to run as far away from her as possible.

At night, he lay awake, weighing his options, fully aware that what he wanted (or not) may be moot. Sara made it clear that she hoped they would be friends again. But could they be friends now, given how he felt about her?

Dan had just told him she would be joining them on the boat today, and the excitement and anticipation of it was churning in his stomach. Those were not feelings one had for a friend.

"She comes out with us every year," Dan said as he took two large containers of marinating chicken out of the refrigerator and carefully packed them into one of the coolers. He sent Gil a wary look. "I hope you're okay with that."

"Of course." They had both avoided discussing Sara since that first night on Dan's porch. And in light of what Gil had told him about his past relationship with Sara—as little or as much as it was—he could understand his friend treading carefully around the issue. To reassure him, Gil added, "I decided to stay at Summerhouse for the summer."

"Great! Did you tell Sara yet?"

"Yes. I saw her the other night when I went out for a walk."

Dan threw him an inquisitive look, but Billy's sudden burst into the kitchen thwarted further explanation.

"Dad! Aunt Melanie's here."

"Melanie?" Cooler forgotten, Dan took off for the front hall but made it only as far as the kitchen doorway as Melanie Colton Hartley exploded in like a display of fireworks in her fashionable multi-colored Capri and halter outfit, her strawberry-blond curls cascading over her shoulders, and the jubilant blare of her voice as she yelled, "Surprise!"

Dan swooped in for a hug. "Why didn't you tell us you were coming?"

"Surprises are much more fun."

"Yeah, well another half hour and the surprise would have been on you."

"Oh, because I don't know your 4th of July routine?"

Dan sighed theatrically. "I'm so predictable. And, speaking of predictable, you vacationing without Chuck again?"

Melanie rolled her eyes. "He had a trip. A pilot's wife gets used to solo vacations, just like a doc—" She broke off, stared. "Gil? I don't believe it. Gil Grissom." She disentangled herself from Dan's arms. "What in heaven's name are you doing here?"

"Visiting your brother." Gil met her halfway as she came into the room, and then held her loosely as she hugged him. Pulling back, he looked at her. "Time always was in love with you, Mel."

She let out a low, lusty laugh and, with a sweep of a hand, drew attention to her very trim, very athletic figure. "This old bod…" she said, looking up at him coyly.

Gil had to bite back a grin. She knew she looked good, and judging from her perfect complexion and tight skin—not to mention the fact that she looked much younger than she had ten years ago—he suspected she was on very good terms with a Hollywood plastic surgeon.

"Come, Gil…" In an unexpected, familiar gesture, she linked her arms through his and led him to the breakfast bar. "We've got a lot of catching up to do."

"Uh, dad…Sara said she's ready when we are," Billy voiced carefully.

"Yes." Back in motion, Dan threw Melanie a glance. "You'll have to catch up on the boat, sis. We're running late."

"And Sara's joining us again this year?"

"Yep."

Finally letting go of Gil's arm, she rounded the kitchen island and leaned against the counter, looking down at Dan who was quickly filling another cooler with beer, wine, and bottled cocktails. "So?" she drawled.

Dan looked up. "What?"

"Oh I don't know. I thought maybe this year you'd have an important announcement to make."

For a confused moment, Dan only stared at her. Then confusion turned to exasperation. "Melanie—" he began warningly.

"Oh come on! She's fantastic; she's obviously crazy about you and Billy. What are you waiting for?"

Dan met Gil's gaze furtively then glanced at his son who, wide-eyed, waited for his father's answer with keen interest.

Gil's insides twisted into one big knot. He tried to school his features, pretend obscurity, or indifference, but what he really wanted was to be anywhere but in this room.

Dan glared at them. "Stop it…both of you, or you'll be spending the day on the dock."

Melanie winked at the boy as they shared a conspiratorial shrug, letting the matter drop, much to Gil's relief.

But as they loaded Dan's SUV and scrambled in, Melanie and Billy in the back, Gil in the front passenger seat, he couldn't help feeling as though he had been sucker punched. Dan told him that he wasn't involved with Sara, and he believed him, but he had never considered the possibility that Sara might have feelings for Dan.

A few seconds later, they pulled up in front of Summerhouse. Gil didn't delve into his motives when Dan started to unclip his seatbelt and he beat him to it, saying, "I'll go get her." He felt three pairs of eyes on his back as he sprinted up the pathway to her front door, but he didn't care.

Gil rang the doorbell then looked back over his shoulder at the garden. There were many rose bushes now, all of them well tended, most of them in bloom, their fragrance reaching him on the front portico. He heard footsteps on the tile floor in the front foyer and unconsciously sucked in a steadying breath—and felt it slip away when she opened the door and stood in front of him, a warm, welcoming smile digging pretty dimples on each side of her mouth.

"Hey," she greeted softly, a hint of weariness in her tone, her face looking fragile and pale. "Come in. I'll just get my things." Gil watched as she went to the kitchen, his masculine gaze naturally drawn to her tantalizing curves, barely concealed by the white shorts and unbuttoned blouse she wore over a bright orange one-piece swimsuit. His eyes caressed her long, tanned legs, still perfect, and then paused on the stylistic flower tattooed on her ankle.

| MAY 2005 |

"_I'd like to tell you it was a celebration of my freedom. But it wasn't anything that deeply meaningful. More of a silly ritual between two sentimental roommates getting matching tattoos as a symbol of everlasting friendship."_

"_That's meaningful."_

"_Not when all that sentimentally came from a very cheap magnum of Champagne."_

_Gil chuckled. "Do you still keep in touch?"_

"_Nope. I guess I'm not cut out for long-term relationships."_

| PRESENT DAY |

In retrospect, Gil wondered if the outcome of their relationship would have been different had he bothered to pursue that conversation with her that night, or any other they might have had, had his purpose not been singly to feel alive; to feel her alive. They had just found Nick, a breath away from death, and Gil had taken Sara home because he couldn't bear to let her out of his sight. He held her hand in a desperate grip the entire way, finding comfort in her touch, feeling not quite so alone. Still caught in the horror of Nick's abduction, neither spoke until he stopped the car, and even then it had been only her murmured invitation up for a drink—which he accepted because he wasn't ready to be alone with his thoughts.

And he wasn't ready to part with her.

He followed her up the stairs and stood close to her as she opened her apartment door, so near that he could smell a hint of her under the shroud of dirt that enveloped them both. Her hair was dusty and hung in mangled strands to her shoulders. Her shoulders were stiff; her hands, shaking as she inserted the key into the lock. Once inside, she went to the refrigerator and took out two bottles of beers, apologizing for not having anything stronger. After taking a sip of her own, Sara had wrinkled her nose in distaste, and shuddering, told him she needed a shower.

She had left him standing in her living room, bone-tired and shock-cold, envious of the hot water that would warm her flesh, then jealous of every droplet that would caress it. As he listened to the sounds of her shower, he gave his imagination free reign, providing images he had always denied himself when in her vicinity, but which he no longer had the strength to will away. He pictured her face turned up to the shower head as she lathered shampoo in her hair; her breasts full and thrusting upward, a bead of water teetering on the tip of a hardened nipple—and how it would feel against his tongue as he licked it off. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, smelling the light perfume of her soap, the tangy sweetness of her shampoo, picturing the rivulets of water cascading down her pale skin. And then it wasn't water caressing and heating her flesh, but his hands and his mouth.

No longer willing to be cautious, he had refused entry to the inner voice that had always steered him to a safer place whenever his desire for her began to build to overwhelming proportions. But something had happened to him that night; something he had refused to question or analyze. He had wanted and needed, and refused to deny himself, if only in his mind.

| MAY 2005 |

_Gil let his imagination soar, his images of her borne out of years of sexual fantasies. Only his mind knew precisely the shape of her breasts, or the taste and texture of her skin, or the soft gasps that escaped her lips as he brought her to orgasm._

"_Are you okay?"_

_His eyes flew open and collided with a vision that could have been straight out of his fantasy. Only it wasn't. She was very real, standing barefoot in a short, flowery robe, with her skin scrubbed to a rosy sheen and her hair falling around her shoulders in a mass of damp curls. For a moment he couldn't speak, only suck in shallow breaths as his senses sharpened and his body tightened._

_For a moment, time stopped._

"_No," he finally said hoarsely, blindly laying the untouched beer on the counter behind him. Two long, deliberate strides brought him to her. Raising a hand, he lightly brushed the tip of his fingers to her hair._

"_Gris?"_

_His entire body shook with need and the knowledge of what he was about to do. He ignored the questions in her eyes. She wasn't moving away and that was all that mattered. Slowly he traced her jaw with his index finger, pleased that he had imagined the texture of her skin so well. His thumb traced her lips and her mouth parted on a gasp, not unlike those of his fantasies. Their eyes locked, and again he refused to answer the unspoken questions in hers. He had wanted her in silence for years; surely he could to do so one more time._

_Gil dipped his head slowly; there was no mistaking his intentions. She could have said no, pushed him away, or stepped back, but she didn't, and at the first touch of his lips to hers the wall of fear and ethics that had held him back all these years suddenly disintegrated within him with such force, he gasped and crushed her body to his._

_His heart pounded when she wrapped her arms around his neck and opened her lips to his. She greedily welcomed his tongue into her mouth, giving as fiercely as she received, grinding her pelvis into his groin, her ardor delighting him, but not surprising him. He had always known she would be this responsive given the chance. It was his own passion that stunned him. In his fantasies, he was always in control, giving her pleasure the way one offered a gift. He was anything but in control now. Her body was the gift, and he was the needy child who couldn't wait to tear into it, and discover all that was hidden under the delicate wrapping._

_His hands moved uncontrollably down her back, over the curve of her ass to palm the back of her naked thighs. He lifted a leg and guided it around his body as his free hand worked its way up beneath her robe, encountering the rough texture of lacy panties. His thumb traced the seam down between her legs and slipped inside to apply pressure to her clitoris. Sara cried in pleasure, fueling the inferno already burning inside him. He lifted her and made it as far as the closest soft surface, and came down on top of her on her couch. He then buried a hand into her hair and pulled her face up to his for a bruising kiss._

_Never, even in his wildest of fantasies, had he ever been anything but gentle with her. But his fantasies had always been based on his reality with other women, and on what his mother had instilled in him as early as puberty. Women were softer creatures deserving of a man's gentle touch. But nothing had prepared him for how desperately he could want her. He was almost fifty years' old and he had never experienced anything this powerful._

_It frightened him._

_With a harsh breath, he sought a modicum of control, forcing himself to slow down, to soften his caress. He looked at her and she smiled, and a feeling of tenderness overwhelmed him. He shifted a little of his weight off her and ran his hand down her leg, noticing her tattoo for the first time. Something in her explanation of it sent a twinge of uneasiness through him, but he refused to dwell on it. He was aroused, needy, and he wasn't about to ruin the moment with his insecurities. His head dipped to the deep vee of her robe. He pressed his lips to the space between her breasts and she sighed._

"_Why did you wait so long?"_

"_Because I knew if we started this, I wouldn't be able to stop."_

"_And you want it to stop?"_

"_Yes…but, God help me, right now, I need you."_

_He didn't notice the change in her until he sought her lips again and she turned her head to evade him._

"_I think you should leave."_

_The bottom fell out of his heart. "Why?"_

"_This is about what happened to Nick," she said, shifting her body from beneath his and scrambling up and off the couch._

_Was it? Her back was to him and she was straightening her robe, tightening the sash around her waist. He wanted to tell her it wasn't true, but he couldn't. He sat up and rubbed a hand down his face. Then, she was looking at him with something resembling disappointment in her eyes—and something else he'd never seen before, but that tugged at him, frightened him even more, though he didn't know why._

"_Sara, this thing between us—"_

"_Is not what you want."_

_And he wished he could disagree with her, but he knew he wouldn't have been back tomorrow. "No," he finally admitted._

_She drew in a sharp breath and clenched her jaw. "You should go."_

_He nodded and got to his feet, walked to the door, all the time fighting the urge to tell her what she wanted to hear. But he couldn't, and without a backward glance, he left._

| PRESENT DAY |

"Are you okay?"

Gil flinched, then clearing his throat, said, "Yeah." He noticed the medium-sized cooler she was carrying, and took it from her. "I'll carry this."

Sara gave him a grateful smile. "Are you sure you're okay?"

He looked at her, really looked at her. No. He wasn't okay. He had just figured out precisely when and how he had fucked up with her. All these years, telling himself that she had abandoned him, when all along it was him who had cast her aside. Sara was stoic. Strong. Forgiving. Why she had slept with him on her last night in Vegas, he couldn't even fathom. Why she was smiling at him now awed him.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he said. What else could he say? I'm sorry I hurt you. Sara had healed. She was happy.

He was the only one still hurting.


	5. New Leaf

See disclaimer in Chapter 1. Chapter 5, New Leaf by Vplasgirl.

* * *

**Chapter 5 - New Leaf**

Gil untied Dan's boat from the dock feeling as though he were coasting in someone else's life. He had been here, of course, once before, many, many years ago. Only the boat hadn't been quite so impressive—Dan had done well for himself—and he felt nothing of that young man who had been at the beginning of a certain path but uncertain future. Nor did his hormones stir when he wrapped his hands around Melanie's waist to assist her aboard after one of her flirtatious damsel-in-distress acts. And when he cautiously climbed the short ladder a few minutes later, his knees reminded him that he had lived an entire lifetime since then.

Stepping onto the gleaming wooden deck, Gil felt a twinge of discomfort. He hadn't always felt like a fish out of water in the company of friends. He used to look forward to after-work drinks with his coworkers. Birthday parties were especially fun because they were always about who would buy the best gift. He had even coached his shift's softball team once upon a time. He used to make time for days like today.

It was Holly Gribbs' murder and his promotion to shift supervisor that had changed everything. Not knowing how to be a friend within the boundaries of his job, he gradually withdrew from the people he cared about most until the job was all he had left.

Gil realized that it would take more than one afternoon of socializing with friends to undo thirteen years of living only for his job. But he badly wanted to rediscover the man he was before cynicism and responsibility had turned him into a social misfit. He didn't want to be on the edge of the crowd looking in anymore.

So with a smile, he joined Dan at the controls. "Where did the others disappear to?"

"Below deck. Sara's putting the food away, Billy's getting his fishing tackle, and Mel mentioned something about slipping into a bikini." Grinning, Dan expertly maneuvered the boat out of the slip. "I don't know many women her age that can pull off a bikini, but somehow my sister manages it."

"Some do." Gil didn't add that a hefty income had a way of defying gravity. For Catherine, it had been a case of discovering she had a very wealthy father. She never mentioned the procedures and always accepted compliments about her appearance graciously. But Gil—and the rest of the lab—had noticed her gradual blossoming. Three weeks off had made her wrinkles disappear and her skin tighten. Afternoon appointments had made her lips look fuller, sometimes unnaturally full, the way one occasionally got a bad haircut, but she didn't seem to notice.

Gil had wondered at times if her feelings for the much younger Warrick had been the motivating factor for her cosmetic surgery, but then he remembered Catherine's first profession and figured she would have done it regardless. For a woman accustomed to male adoration, aging couldn't be easy.

But if Warrick had been an incentive for shaving ten years off her appearance, Gil couldn't fault her for it. Not that he would ever resort to cosmetic surgery, but he had made some lifestyle changes in the past few years, some healthy ones though his health had not been his primary concern. He had wanted to look younger.

He lost most of his excess weight via natural methods such as a better diet and exercise, and covered his prematurely gray hair with natural hair dyes. The first time he tried coloring his beard with this much-advertised guaranteed-to-make-him-look-younger product, it turned yellow. He swore and told himself there was a reason why vanity was a mortal sin, and then started getting it done professionally.

Gil didn't immediately admit to himself that he wanted to look more attractive to Sara. It wasn't until she left and he thought of abandoning his regimen in an illogical act of defiance, that he owned up to the fact that he had been puffing up his biceps and adding color to his hair in a typical male mating ritual designed to attract her. But he didn't abandon the regimen after she left, partly because his new lifestyle had become a habit by then, and because he hadn't felt better physically in years. He became progressively thinner and his muscles bulkier until he felt good in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt again.

Now, all he needed was his old personality back, the one that had brought Sara to Las Vegas in the first place. It was time to bury the guy who had driven her away.

"Gil?"

He looked up sharply. "Hmm?"

"Something on your mind?"

Gil shoved his hands in the pockets of his khaki Dockers. He felt overdressed next to Dan who was wearing shorts and a muscle shirt, but he doubted he would ever wear shorts in public again. "Turning over a new leaf," he said, which earned him a quizzical glance from Dan, but further conversation was cut short when Sara joined them on deck.

"Hey," she said, handing each of them a bottle of beer.

She had removed her shirt and put on an orange-colored baseball cap. Her hair fell through the loop at the back in a short ponytail that made her look like a girl. Gil smiled as he accepted the beer she offered. "Thank you. Aren't you having anything?"

"Too early for me," she said as she leaned back against the railing and turned her face up to the sun.

Dan downed half the bottle in one swallow and sighed forcefully, wiping the moisture from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nothing like a cold beer on a hot day."

"I know, and somewhere in the world it's cocktail hour," Sara returned teasingly.

"You got it, babe."

Gil set his bottle down next to the controls and left Dan and Sara to their—whatever it was that was so easy and always sounded so intimate between them—and climbed the few steps to the upper deck. There, he busied himself unfolding a stack of lounge chairs. When he had set up the last one, Sara joined him and lifted the cover off a large storage compartment. With a brief smile, she handed him a couple of thick, blue cushions and took the remaining three, and together they laid them out on the chairs.

"You seem to know your way around the boat," Gil remarked casually. "You and Dan do this often?"

She shrugged. "Once in a while, but always on the 4th of July. It's a tradition."

"So I hear." Under the cover of dark shades, Gil watched as Sara looped the last elastic band around the foot of a chair. She was beautifully tanned, naturally lovely. Her ponytail danced in the breeze created by the speed of the boat. He lowered himself to the foot of one of the chaise and propped his forearms on his knees, clasping his hands tightly between them.

"There," she said as she finished securing the last cushion to a chair. She spaced them out in a semi-circle around him and then flashed him a smile.

"Sit with me a minute," he invited when it looked as though she would leave to rejoin Dan, and Melanie who was now standing next to her brother at the controls in what would best be described as a barely-there lime green bikini.

"Okay." Sara perched herself on the edge of a chair and looked at him, waiting for him to speak. Uppermost in his mind was to find out how she felt about Dan, but suddenly words escaped him. Thankfully, Sara broke the silence.

"This must be strange for you."

"What?"

"Spending the day with your ex-girlfriend."

Softly, he asked, "Is that what you were, Sara?"

"I meant Melanie."

"Oh." _Of course. _ He sighed. "Mel was a very long time ago and didn't last very long. We didn't have much in common."

Sara let his words linger for a moment, and then smiled. "I'm not surprised."

"You seem to get along well with her." Gil had been somewhat bewildered by the warm greeting the two women had exchanged earlier. For two women whom he had surmised would have absolutely nothing in common, they seemed genuinely happy to see each other.

"She's nice."

"She thinks you'd make a fabulous sister-in-law." Gil kept his eyes on her face and when she laughed, he relaxed a little.

"She's as delusional as Billy. As the adult in this matchmaking duo I wish she'd stop encouraging his juvenile fantasies."

"Well…perhaps she doesn't think they're unfounded."

Sara's smile faded. "What do you think?"

Gil wished he could see her eyes; they were so expressive, but the twin lines that formed above the bridge of her dark glasses were enough to prompt a careful response. "I think it's possible that you and Dan are only very close friends. I also think that it's possible for someone who has a personal interest in your relationship to mistake that friendship for something more."

Sara sighed. "Billy's looking for a mother, you know."

"I know."

"Melanie only wants her brother to be happy. She told me once that he hasn't been the same since his wife's death."

"He hasn't."

Sara looked at him. "Dan's your friend, so…I'm guessing that you also have a personal interest in our relationship."

He nodded and dropped his gaze to his hands, cursing himself for starting a conversation he suddenly didn't want to have. He looked down at Dan and Melanie, wishing that one of them, or Billy who had joined them, would interrupt. He had managed to convince himself that he needed to know how Sara felt about Dan, but confession time here, he feared that he was on the verge of swallowing a very bitter pill.

"Gris?"

He glanced at her and shook his head. "It's none of my business."

"Is that your way of saying you wouldn't approve?"

"I think Dan's the luckiest man in the world to have your love," he forced himself to say because she deserved no less from him, and he meant it. He rose. "We should join the others. Dan's getting ready to drop anchor."

"Gil." Her hand on his wrist stopped him. He looked down at her. "I do care about Dan. As a friend." Sara let go of his wrist. "We've been there for each other through some rough times and it made us very close. But friends is all we can ever be, regardless of how much Billy and Melanie wish it were different."

"Well," he started, releasing a long breath, "you can't command a heart to love."

Sara lowered her head. "I know."

"Or to stop loving." She looked up at him and he smiled, daring to hope that she wasn't completely lost to him. Dan had dropped anchor on the ocean side of Long Point Beach. Suddenly feeling happier and eager to celebrate this holiday with her, Gil offered Sara a hand up. "Shall we?"

She smiled and accepted his hand. "Let the festivities begin."

Gil playfully dragged her shades down her nose with the tip of his index finger. "You look very cute in that cap by the way."

Her smile widened into a full-blown grin. "Is this part of you turning over a new leaf?"

"Ahh... You heard that."

"Hmm." Mimicking him, she dragged his glasses down his nose and met his gaze. "I like it." And with that she left him to follow her down to the main deck where the others—Billy with ill-concealed impatience, Melanie, off to the side leaning back against the railing in a model's pose and looking like a middle-aged Barbie—waited for them.

"Can I ask her now?" Billy growled at his father.

"It's may I, and yes you may, but you know she's gonna say no," he replied, missing his son's scowl as he concentrated on filling the built-in Compact Disk player with CDs.

Sara looked at Billy. "Ask me what?"

"If you want to fish."

"Billy, you know I don't like fishing, but tell you what. You go ahead and put that line in the water while I get us some munchies, and then I'll watch you for a while. Want something while I'm down there?"

Seemingly satisfied that she would hang out with him even if she didn't fish, Billy grinned; something Gil hadn't witnessed much since his arrival. "Mountain Dew," he replied.

"Mountain Dew it is."

Gil watched Sara go below deck then noticed the two rods propped against the side of the boat. He almost felt sorry for the boy, but the smug look Billy shot him before strolling to port side made those feelings of sympathy vanish. With an internal shrug, Gil picked up his still untouched beer from where he'd left it near the controls and caught Dan's eye. "Thanks," he said _sotto voce_.

"Did you work things out?" Dan asked in kind.

"Some. It's a start." As a Reggae tune blared out from the CD player, Gil tipped the bottle to his lips and then grimaced. "Warm beer."

XXXXX

THE AFTERNOON WAS off to a fine start. Gil and Dan had set up the grill on the main deck and then transferred the drinks from the cooler to a built-in icebox on the upper deck. Folding cocktail tables were arranged between the lounge chairs; chips, pretzels, and peanuts filled colorful plastic bowls, and the red, white and blue was gently dancing on the ocean breeze.

Melanie was stretched out on one of the chairs soaking up the sun while down below, Sara chatted quietly with Billy as he gigged for fish. Dan brought Gil a cold beer and stood with him at the railing, looking down at his son and Sara.

"Is this a good fishing spot?" Gil asked him.

"As good as any. He'll probably get a few nibbles, but I doubt he'll catch anything at this time of day."

Sara looked up and smiled, then said something to Billy that drew his gaze up to the men who were watching them. His gaze hardened as it briefly landed on Gil before he abruptly turned away, and Gil understood the reaction a moment later when Sara left him to join the adults.

"Your son doesn't like me very much."

"Don't take it personally. It's his standard reaction to any guy who pays attention to Sara. But I do think the time has come for a man-to-man talk with my son. Can you handle the ladies on your own for a while?"

"Hmm?" Gil had stopped paying attention at _'standard reaction'_, his thoughts turned to a string of faceless men who had been Sara's lovers. How many had there been over the years, he wondered?

"Gil, the ladies…?"

Frowning, Gil glanced up at Dan. "Oh. Sure, you go ahead."

Sara and Melanie were both slapping on sunscreen lotion. Well Sara was slapping it on. Melanie was doing something entirely different with it.

"Gil," she cooed, "will you do my back?"

He took the bottle of lotion she offered and squirted some in his palm. "Turn around," he commanded as he sat on the next chair over. Quickly, he rubbed the lotion into her skin, looking at Sara as he did so. She was watching him, lips pursed in amusement. He slanted a mild smile at her and after finishing with Mel, raised a brow. "Sara?"

"I'm fine," she responded.

Gil rose and went to stand over her. "Your shoulders are getting pink."

Her eyes downcast, Sara tilted her head and looked at her shoulder. "Looks okay to me."

Ignoring her protest, he straddled the lounge chair behind her. "You won't think so tomorrow."

She tossed him a glance over her shoulder. "F-fine," she conceded, her slight stammer pleasing him. There had to be some pretense to her casual friendliness these past few days if the idea of him touching her flustered her this much.

Hiding a smile, Gil squirted some lotion into his hands and slowly, very deliberately, slipped a little finger beneath each strap of her suit and drew them down over her shoulders. He felt her tense when his palms touched her skin. Taking his time, keeping his touch gentle, he massaged the lotion into her shoulders, the base of her neck, over her spine, and as far down her back as the cut of her suit allowed. When his hands traveled back up, he applied a little more pressure, working her knotted muscles with his thumbs. He heard her soft gasp, her head jerked back, and her ponytail brushed against his cheek, sending a sudden rush of desire to his groin. Evidently, Ms. Sidle wasn't completely immune to him, but nor was he to her, and the wise course of action given their audience, was to extract himself from the situation.

Quickly, Gil drew the straps back over Sara's shoulders and got to his feet. He returned the bottle of lotion to Mel who was watching him with undisguised interest.

"Dan tells me you two used to work together."

All Gil could manage was a short utterance of agreement. Snatching his beer, he moved to the edge of the deck, looking over at Long Point Beach and the crowds that had accumulated there, and that would continue to grow throughout the evening for the ten o'clock fireworks display over the harbor. He nursed his beer as he listened to Melanie and Sara talk about her job as a CSI, but it wasn't until Mel asked her why she left, and silence fell between the women, that he reacted by turning to look at Sara.

She quickly dropped her head and shrugged. "It was getting to me."

"How so?"

Sara glanced at Gil, and then at Melanie. "Let's just say that my reasons for getting into CSI were misguided."

"And they were?" Melanie pressed.

"To bring closure to the families of violent crimes."

"But isn't that what you did?" Melanie persisted. "I mean, by finding out what happened and making criminals pay for what they did, didn't you bring some comfort to the families?"

"Comfort?" Sara asked as she rose and went to the cooler for a bottled cocktail. Turning, she looked at Melanie. "No. Not comfort. Answers, maybe, and sometimes not even that. But nothing can take away their pain."

"And that's why you quit?"

Sara sat down and for a thoughtful moment toyed with the edge of the label on the bottle of Sangria. Finally, looking at Melanie, she said, "That was part of it." She lifted a shoulder in a shrug, clearly trying to mask her discomfort with Melanie's interrogation. "It was getting to me," she reiterated in a tone that indicated she didn't care to pursue the conversation.

| MAY 2005 |

"_I can't do it anymore, Grissom. I thought this job would help me understand what happened to my family and help me put it to rest, but the opposite is happening. It's keeping it alive and I'm hanging on to my sanity by a thread."_

_Gil was conflicted. It wasn't that he didn't believe her. He had watched her struggles for a couple of years; watched her get emotionally involved in some cases, and had worried about her. But after receiving counseling, she seemed to cope much better. She seemed happier. Sara thought he didn't notice, but he missed very little that concerned her. He had been acutely aware of her, her moods, her growing relationship with Greg, which was another source of conflict for Gil who wanted her to be happy, but couldn't curb his jealousy. And now she was telling him she couldn't handle the job anymore and it was his duty as her boss and someone who cared about her to let her go._

_But her timing was suspicious and his emotions confusing._

"_Is that the only reason you want to leave?"_

"_Isn't it enough?"_

"_Why now, Sara?"_

"_You have to let one of us go."_

"_I have to let Greg go. Not you."_

"_I know that."_

"_Is this about my behavior at your apartment last week?" he asked softly._

"_N-No," Sara stammered. "No. This isn't sudden, Grissom. I've been thinking about it for a while and I can leave now without disrupting the team."_

"_It's not only about headcount, Sara. I'd still be trading an experienced CSI for a rookie."_

"_Greg's good. He's a quick learner."_

_He sighed. "Have you talked to your counselor about this?"_

"_Yes."_

"_And?"_

"_Let's just say that I've been exposed to enough violence in my life."_

_Gil nodded sadly. He did understand and he wanted her to know that. But mostly, he wanted to remain professional and his skin was growing clammy, there was a knot forming in his gut, and he couldn't pretend that the bitter taste rising in his throat was out of concern for the lab. "I don't want to let you go," he finally admitted as dread began to turn to panic._

"_I appreciate that, Gris. You'll never know how much. But I have to do this—for me."_

"_Sara—" He stared into her eyes, something that in the best of circumstances tended to fluster him; today they were severely impairing his ability to think. They were darker than usual, a little stricken, he thought, but he saw determination in them as well, and he realized there was nothing he could say to change her mind._

_With his heart lodged in his throat, he said, "If you ever want to come back…" and she smiled tightly then politely thanked him. And just as he'd known she wouldn't reconsider her decision to leave, as she walked out of his office, he was equally certain she wouldn't be coming back._

| PRESENT DAY |

"You never regretted it?" Melanie asked.

"Leaving the job? No. Of course, I missed some of it…the lab work, solving puzzles, the people I used to work with. Mostly the people I used to work with."

Gil took the chaise on Sara's left and stretched out, kicking off his shoes. "You were missed too."

Sara looked at him and smiled. "How is everyone?" Without waiting for an answer, she said, "I saw Catherine on TV a few years ago. CNN was broadcasting part of the testimony in the Vegas Strangler case. She stated her name for the record as Willows-Brown. Is she...?"

"Married to Warrick? Yes."

Melanie rose from her chair. "I'll go see what's holding up the boys," she said, and they spared her a glance as she left them alone.

"What happened to the first Mrs. Brown?"

"That union ended as swiftly and unexpectedly as it began. It only lasted six months."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but not surprised."

"No one was. What happened to Nick affected all of us in different ways, but for Warrick it was realizing just how short and unpredictable life can be. He didn't want to waste another minute of his, so he jumped headfirst into a marriage with a woman he barely knew. It was impulsive and he soon realized his mistake."

"Yeah," Sara voiced absently, looking away.

Was she thinking about his own impulsive behavior that night? Warrick wasn't the only one to act rashly in the aftermath of Nick's abduction, though he perhaps had more reason than most. It could just as easily have been him instead of Nick buried alive that night. Gil's actions were similarly motivated, but the cost to him proved much greater over the years.

"Well, at least it turned out well for him in the end," he mused aloud. "He and the first Mrs. Brown parted amicably six months later, and had it not been for his marriage and Catherine's reaction to it, he might never have known how she felt about him. I wasn't so lucky."

"What do you mean?"

"Warrick wasn't alone in making rash decisions that night, Sara. I don't think I've adequately apologized to you for my actions."

Her expression sobered significantly. "Actually, Grissom, you have. Repeatedly."

"So you did get my emails."

Ignoring his comment, Sara set her unfinished bottle of Sangria on a side table, and jumped to her feet. She dropped her sunglasses on the chair and kicked off her sandals. "I'm going for a swim."

Gil sat up. "Here? Is it safe?"

"Sure it is. I do it all the time. Besides, I'm a really good swimmer."

In a swift motion, she removed her shorts, threw them on the chair and strode off as if she couldn't get away from him fast enough.

"Sara—"

She already had a foot on the first step leading down to the main deck, but just as abruptly as she'd left, she stopped and turned to look at him. "What?" she muttered between clenched teeth.

Gil blinked, surprised by her anger. "Be careful," he said simply.

XXXXX

Sara's sudden spark of anger tormented Gil for the remainder of the day. Nothing in her behavior until then had ever hinted at residual feelings from their past. And when she climbed aboard the boat after her swim, she was once again full of grace and good humor as if that moment of awkwardness between them hadn't happened. But he noticed that she carefully avoided being alone with him again.

After dinner, Melanie told them stories of Hollywood parties she had attended, the celebrities she had met, the homes she had visited, all in rich detail, sparing none. She could have been a successful storyteller, Gil thought, had she ever learned the concept of less is more, especially when she shared intimate accounts of the lives of people they had never met. Gil had forgotten that minor annoyance about her. And despite zoning out through most of it, he still knew more than he had ever hoped to know about Jane and Louise, the wife and daughter of a famous Hollywood actor whose name he vaguely recalled.

While Dan humored his sister, asking questions that led to more colorful tales, and Billy asked about Britney Spears and was disappointed when Mel admitted that she had never met her, Sara remained quiet. Gil often glanced at her, and once caught her hiding a yawn behind a fist, whether out of boredom or because she was genuinely tired he wasn't sure until she responded to his knowing smile by sucking in her lips to abort one of her own.

At ten o'clock they stood at the railing on the upper deck to watch the fireworks, and by eleven-thirty they were home. Everyone immediately turned in for the night, pleading exhaustion after a day in the sun. When they dropped her off, Sara had seemed even more exhausted than the lot of them, reminding Gil that she had started the day looking tired. So when a little past midnight the house was quiet and he left his room for the porch, he was surprised to see the glow of light above her private patio.

The urge to go to her was stronger than ever. Gil didn't miss the irony. Until the very end of their relationship six years ago, he had carefully avoided situations that could lead to dangerous, intimate conversations with her. And now, he yearned for just that. He wanted to know what had made her so angry earlier that it had propelled her into the cool waters of the ocean. He wanted to know what was keeping her up at night. He wanted to know everything she was hiding from him, including why she had never responded to his emails. But most of all, he wanted to make love with her so badly that he would gladly give up all that knowledge for one night with her.

"Why don't you go see her?"

Gil started, stiffened. Over his shoulder, he glanced at Dan. "I thought you were in bed."

"I heard you leave your room. You do it every night."

Gil shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze once more drawn next door. "I searched for her for six years," he admitted softly, his voice strangled with emotions he quickly masked with a chuckle. "Even after I gave up hope of finding her, I'd still fantasize about what I'd say to her if I ever saw her again."

"What did you want to say to her?"

"In a nutshell?" He glanced at Dan then looked over at Summerhouse again. "That I still love her."

"I take it you haven't told her."

Gil shook his head. "I never did. And now, she doesn't want to hear it." He sighed deeply, wearily, and turned away from the light. "Anyway," he said, "time for bed."


	6. Four days in Boston

See disclaimer in Chapter 1. Chapter 6, Four Days in Boston by Vplasgirl.

* * *

**Chapter 6 – Four Days in Boston**

At eleven o'clock Friday evening Gil was in his Boston hotel room typing the last few words of yet another chapter into his laptop. _This is child's play_, he thought as his fingers pounded the last word and period on the keyboard. Sitting back, he let out a tired sigh and smiled. At this rate, his first draft would be completed weeks ahead of schedule.

Becoming a novelist was turning out to be much easier than anticipated. Not that he had expected it to overtax his brain, but to date it hadn't been much of a challenge either. He quickly secured representation from a renowned New York agent at first contact. He had chosen her carefully, and then sent a synopsis of his book along with his credentials. A phone call later, a contract had arrived by messenger. As luck would have it, Debbie Broker already knew him—or knew of him by reputation. He reflected that he would never be able to publicly tell of his first publishing experience without pissing off an entire generation of writers. It had been too easy for him, and he often had to temper his enthusiasm by reminding himself that the book wasn't sold yet, despite Debbie's conviction that it would be an easy sell; the literary world, it seemed, couldn't get enough crime novels.

Wondering if he was just destined to succeed at everything he touched, Gil powered down his computer. The desk lamp bathed a small corner of his room in a warm yellow glow, but outside the night was black. At the window, he looked down at the street, wet and shimmering in the light of ornamental lampposts. But the torrential rain that had kept him in the city an extra day had thankfully stopped.

He wondered if the rain had stopped at the Cape as well, and if so, if Sara was lying under the stars. He should have been settled in her attic room tonight instead of being holed up in an impersonal hotel room in the heart of Boston.

Turning from the window, his eyes fell on the phone on the bedside table. He hadn't spoken to Sara since they dropped her off after their Independence Day outing on Dan's boat on Monday. He left for Boston the next morning, but she'd been sneaking into his thoughts all week, sometimes distracting him at odd moments.

On Wednesday it was during a luncheon meeting with the Dean and his soon-to-be predecessor in the Department of Entomology at Harvard. They met at an unpretentious French bistro in Cambridge, near the Museum of Comparative Zoology where he would be spending a sizeable chunk of his life over the next three years. It was the restaurant's copious vegetarian menu that had brought her suddenly to mind.

The following day, it happened during a meeting with his lawyer to finalize the purchase of the condominium. It was official; he would be taking possession on August 25th, a few days before the fall session began. But he had found himself hesitating as he was about to sign the sales contract, wondering if Sara would want to live in Boston during the winter months. Then startled at the strange and premature notion, he quickly scrawled his name on the legal document.

The woman who had sworn off meat years ago now enjoyed a good steak. The talented scientist ran a B&B and had become an accomplished photographer. She seemed to have gone to great lengths to change everything about her life, and more importantly, cut all ties with her past. Why would he even dream that she still wanted him? How often, over the years, had he doubted that she had still felt something for him in the end? If she had, would she have left the way she did?

Gil lay back on the bed and threw his right arm over his head, letting the memories of their last night together six years ago wash over him. The details should have dimmed over time, but he had relived that night in his mind too many times to have forgotten a second of it.

| MAY 2005 |

_There was something in her eyes as she opened the door to her motel room that did him in before he could explain why he had come. She must have seen something similar in his gaze for she never asked why he was there, only took his hand, and drew him into her room with more confidence than she had ever displayed in her personal association with him. Before the door clicked shut, her lips had closed over his in a kiss that seared him to his soul, and years of repressed desire unleashed into his system. There was no place for words then, only passion as nimble fingers unbuttoned his shirt and a sure hand guided him to her bed. He was barely aware of his own hands shaking as he quickly disrobed her. They tumbled onto the mattress, and his fingers delved into her hair, angling her mouth toward his for a long passionate kiss that left them both breathless._

"_Gris, make love to me," she whispered against his lips. There was something urgent, almost pleading in her request, and it was the sexiest thing he had ever heard. Although sex had been the last thing on his mind as he drove out to the motel on the edge of town where she had been staying after giving up her apartment, in that moment, he was powerless to deny her anything._

_He had come to ask her to stay. He had planned to tell her that he loved her, but her near naked body was moving beneath his, and the delicate scrap of white lace barely hiding her sex drove him beyond thought. His tongue sought out her breasts, her nipples, hard and enticing and she moaned. He looked at her face then, at her eyes, gently begging him, and he was swept by a wave of passion and lust so powerful, that he forgot everything he had come to say._

_Later, when he was buried deep inside of her, and his heart was pounding at the sheer joy of finally having her, he remembered, but she wasn't listening. Her eyes were closed, and she was making erotic little noises in her throat as he slowly thrust into her, despite the urgent need that drove him, encouraged him to go faster, give to her harder, demanding her release and making him pray that he could control his own until he had satisfied her. And when each pulse of her orgasm drew him nearer to his own, he tried to speak…_

"_Sara—"_

_But that was as far as he got._

_By the time his breathing and heartbeat had returned to normal, Sara was already dozing, her body curled into his side and her head resting on his chest. He loved the way she felt in his arms, thrilled at being able to look at this face he loved without fear of revealing too much of what was in his heart. No one was looking, and she finally knew, had to have realized with every murmured endearment, every touch, every kiss he had bestowed upon her soft skin. Words had not been necessary after all—not those words, at least—and tomorrow, he would find the right ones to convince her to stay._

_Turning off the light, Gil pulled the blanket over their naked bodies and hugged her close to his heart. Soon, he too had found sleep._

_The next morning, he awoke with a jolt. He felt Sara's absence even before his eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the shabby motel room, the sun not quite penetrating the tacky, velvet drapes at the window. His breathing quickened as he quickly sat up, taking in the evidence, even as his heart rejected it, that she had left. But the suitcase that had lain open on the room's only chair the night before was gone. So were her handbag and the keys she had discarded on top of the dresser. All that was left was a scrap of paper on the chipped bedside table, which he picked up and unfolded with unsteady fingers._

_Grissom,_

_Thank you for last night … for knowing exactly what I needed. I will never forget you._

_Sara_

"_Dear God … no!"_

_He left the bed, barely noticing how rough and cheap the carpet felt under his feet, and hastily dressed. He rushed outside, hoping, despite the gnawing suspicion in his gut that she had merely gone to the restaurant across the parking lot. But his heart sank further when he noticed that her rental car was gone._

_Frustrated, he strode to the front office and pounded the bell on the counter. The middle-aged woman that emerged from the back didn't bother concealing her annoyance. "Can I help you?"_

"_The woman in 8B…Sara Sidle, when did she check out?"_

"_I'm sorry, sir, but I can't give out that information."_

_Gil yanked his LVPD identification card from his pocket and slapped it down on the counter. The woman looked at it, then up at him. "She checked out twenty minutes ago. Why? What has she—"_

_Gil pocketed his card and muttered a quick thank you as he left the office. Outside, the already scorching sun beat down on him as he placed a call to Sara's cell phone only to get a recorded message that the customer he was attempting to reach was not available. His jaw clenched, he snapped the phone shut and stood for a long time on the hot pavement, watching the highway traffic speed by. Ten days later, the recorded voice that greeted him announced that the number was no longer in service._

| PRESENT TIME |

Gil sat up on the edge of the bed. He could never recall that morning without feeling a little bit of the heartbreak he had felt then, and for months afterward. The pain had eventually subsided, of course, and when it had, and all that were left were regrets and the occasional melancholic moment, he had been happy to finally be free of her.

It was strange how seeing her again had brought it all back as though it had happened yesterday; not the gut-wrenching pain of six years ago, but an unsettling feeling of anxiety that was with him all the time.

Gil rose from the bed and went to the tiled bathroom for a shower, but as much as he tried to refocus his thoughts, they kept drifting back to Sara and the choices he had made in life.

His move to the East Coast was unfolding according to plan just as his entire career had. And it was hardly surprising. He had concentrated all his energies on work and study his entire life, and his accomplishments were now opening the right doors. Had he listened to Brass who had advised him to find the clock-out button, or to Catherine's, _'You got to lift your head out of that microscope,'_ he might not have made it to the top of his field. He might not have earned the respect and esteem of his colleagues nationwide, and been touted as having elevated the reputation of the Las Vegas crime lab to one of the best in the country, second only to the FBI's, but in all fairness, his lab hadn't enjoyed the liberal funding afforded only to the FBI.

Despite what it had cost him personally, Gil was proud of his career, and it occurred to him now that he had had few professional failures, none if one considered that a 100 percent solve rate was impossible to achieve. Sustained perfection simply didn't exist. But he had always achieved the lab's goals, and year-over-year had been able to raise the bar.

A few years ago, as the keynote speaker at the annual Entomology conference in Philadelphia, he was introduced by a colleague as a bug lover who led a charmed life. At the time, Gil couldn't disagree with his assessment, but in retrospect, it hadn't been a balanced life. He had devoted it to his career, led by his fascination with the unusual and cautioned by witnessing the devastation of love—beginning with his mother—which had made him leery of romantic entanglements. He hadn't even longed for the companionship of a woman until very late in life, and even then he figured he would pursue someone who would complement him without all the trappings of romantic love.

Except that he had met many women who fit that description, but none who made him want to settle down. He had to lose Sara to understand why. Despite the chaos that loving someone could bring to an ordered life, Gil had never been motivated to commit to someone he didn't feel that bone-deep yearning for.

Perhaps he had never failed at anything because he had never tackled anything he could fail at, such as a loving, committed relationship with a woman.

The hot sprays of the shower failed to warm his body. As he left the bathroom wrapped in the thick robe provided by the hotel, he was shivering. He could turn off the room's air conditioning, but he suspected it wouldn't cure what really ailed him. At the end of August, when the time came to leave Provincetown, would he be reliving the agony Sara had left in her wake when she left Vegas six years ago?

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his gaze falling once again on the telephone on the side table. What was wrong with him that he hadn't even called her to let her know he would return a day later than planned? Instead, he asked Dan to relay the message. Gil sometimes thought he was his own worst enemy.

He abruptly picked up the phone and dialed a number he had already memorized, and then held his breath until he heard Sara's soft greeting.

"Summerhouse."

"Hi."

"Grissom?"

"Yeah." And suddenly realizing how late it was, he quickly added, "I hope I didn't wake you."

"No. I was just going to bed."

"Right. I shouldn't keep you. I was just, uh… I wondered if…" _Damn! _Gil momentarily closed his eyes and gave his head a shake. "Did Dan give you my message?"

"About not arriving until tomorrow? Yes."

"Good. Good." He was supremely aware of his heartbeat as he searched for something more to say. A moment passed, then, "I'm uh…looking forward to your exhibit." _That wasn't so bad._

"I wish I could say the same."

"Nervous?"

"A little."

He smiled and felt himself relax. "Don't be. I'm sure you're as brilliant at this as you are at everything else."

"Thanks," was all Sara said, and in the ensuing silence, Gil wondered, _now what?_ He missed her, but he could hardly tell her that. Talking about the weather seemed too obvious and…unsophisticated. Who was he kidding? He really was a rookie at this. And then Sara suddenly saved him from certain embarrassment. "I heard on the news that the storm hit Boston pretty bad," she said, and hope flared inside him. Perhaps he wasn't the only one who didn't want the call to end.

"Yes, but it gave me a chance to finish another chapter."

"You mentioned it was a crime novel. Would I recognize the plot?"

Gil propped a pillow up against the headboard, and settled back. "I don't think so…at least not from cases we've handled. You may recognize the heroine though. She's a lot like you."

"Really?" Sara seemed genuinely surprised by his admission. "Are you sure you want that novel to sell?"

Gil chuckled. "My editor is already in love with her." As he was. And should be. How else would readers fall in love with his heroine if he wasn't already in love with her? But that was more information than he was willing to share at the moment.

After a beat, Sara asked, "What's her name?"

"Olivia Sharpe," he replied without hesitation. Other than his editor, Gil hadn't shared the particulars of his novel with anyone. Even what he had told Dan was sketchy at best. It seemed too personal, too revealing, a feeling he knew he had to overcome before the book hit the shelves. But interestingly, he didn't mind sharing it with Sara.

"Mmm… nice, strong name, yet… How is she like me?"

"Well," he started, "she is strong, courageous, smart…" He sucked in a breath and very deliberately added, "beautiful, of course," which earned him a throaty chuckle. He hadn't even realized how much Sara had inspired his Olivia until she asked about the novel that first night on her terrace. He had spent the week going back and making minor adjustments so she wouldn't be so easily recognizable to people who knew them. But he hadn't changed the fundamentals of her personality or much of her physical appearance, only tweaked her back-story. He wondered now if unconsciously he had created a character so like her that she would someday pick up his book and know how much she had meant to him. The realization left him suddenly introspective, so he had to force himself to resume a lighter tone. Tongue-in-cheek, he asked, "You aren't going to sue me, are you?'

"Are you kidding? You're way too good for my ego." Was it possible that what he thought of her still mattered to her? Hope flared but for a brief moment, like a match in the wind. "How many women can say they were the inspiration for the heroine of a novel?"

"Right. Well, I hope I do you justice."

"I trust you, Grissom," she said softly, and despite his better judgment, he let the words warm their way into his heart. He couldn't remind her that she hadn't always trusted him, the memory of their last night together still too fresh and raw in his mind. And as angry as her disappearance had made him feel all these years ago, in the rational part of his brain—when he eventually allowed it to surface—he hadn't blamed her. In fact, he was just beginning to realize that the problem between them had been that he hadn't trusted her.

Suddenly he wasn't grasping for something to say…it was all there, perhaps too much of it, but nothing that he was willing to discuss over the phone.

"Sara…"

"Mmm?…"

"Tomorrow—after the exhibit—I'd like to take you to dinner."

"Yes, Dan said you would," she replied without hesitation.

"Excuse me?"

"Didn't he tell you? Oh. He didn't. Well, he said that the two of you would take me out to my favorite Italian place in Truro."

Gil swallowed his disappointment that they wouldn't be alone. But then, they would have plenty of opportunities for some time alone over the next few weeks. "Good," he finally said, "I'll see you tomorrow. Sleep well."

"Goodnight, Grissom. And thanks for calling."

Gil frowned at her perfectly pleasant, damned professional ending to the conversation. He cleared his throat, but his voice still felt scratchy when he replied, "Goodnight, Sara."


	7. Meet Patrick

**Chapter Seven**

"Mr. Grissom! Welcome back," Stephanie exclaimed as she opened the front door to Summerhouse to him the following morning.

"Thank you, and it's Gil," he reminded her with a smile.

"Gil. Sorry."

She held the door as he stepped inside weighed down by a garment bag, a suitcase, and his laptop. Casting a practiced eye around the room, he noted how deserted it was. "Is it always this quiet around here?"

"At this time of day it is, unless the weather's bad," Stephanie replied, closing the door. "Your room's ready. Do you need help with your luggage?"

"I'm fine." Stephanie retrieved a key from the desk and he followed her to the main staircase. "Sara's not here?"

"She's already left for Truro. She was meeting the director of the Art Council for lunch."

Masking his disappointed, Gil followed Stephanie up the stairs.

Stephanie unlocked 'The Eagle's Nest'—the room's name now etched on a shiny, new brass plaque on the door—and led him up the narrow staircase. "Sara told me you already got the tour, so I'll leave you to unpack."

"Thank you." Gil laid his computer on the desk next to a colorful and welcoming arrangement of fresh flowers, some varieties he remembered from the Summerhouse garden. The sun poured in through the windows, reflecting in three pools of golden light on the polished hardwood floors. The windows were open to let in a gentle breeze that smelled of summer and sea.

"Well, enjoy your stay," Stephanie said, handing him the room key. "If you need anything, just come looking for me." Gil nodded his thanks, and she made to leave but stopped at the last minute. "Oh… I almost forgot," she said, "Dan called about an hour ago. He asked me to tell you that he's ready when you are. He said something about grabbing lunch in Truro before the exhibit."

"Okay; if he calls again, tell him I'll be there in an hour."

"Will do."

When, a moment later, he heard the soft click of the door at the bottom of the stairs, Gil plugged in his computer and left it to boot up while he showered and changed into dressed slacks and shirt. He removed a stylish but casual blazer from his garment bag and tossed it to the bed, then put the rest of his clothes away. After stowing his empty bags on the closet's upper shelf, he glanced at his watch and went to the desk. He had time to fire off an email to his agent to inform her of his progress on the book, but an email from Catherine seemed a much more pleasant way to spend the next few minutes. Deciding his agent could wait, he opened Catherine's mail, then sat back and read.

_Gil,_

_I'll admit that I was surprised to receive your email last week. You're right. It was unexpected. Warrick, (who says 'hi', by the way,) explained the cake thing. He'd forgotten about that. Trust you to leave such an obscure clue into your psyche. _

_Everyone's doing well; Greg is adjusting. I swear, Gil, that kid hates change more than you do, but the new girl I hired has put a smile on his face the likes of which I haven't seen since the Sara era. She's young and pretty, I'll give her that, and enthusiastic! Damn, she's enthusiastic. I keep reminding myself that we all started out with that kind of optimism; if I didn't, I'd be the one making headlines: 'CSI boss assaults young protégé.' I wish I had your patience, my friend._

_Brass came by earlier today. He asked if I'd heard from you. You know, for someone who kept to himself so much, you managed to warm your way into the hearts of many people. You really should keep in touch with them._

_And please stop being so mysterious! What's this project you're working on? Warrick and I spent our anniversary dinner speculating about it, and as much as I care about you, speculating about your life wasn't on my agenda that night. _

_But now I have to go. Faith is paging me. 'Faith." That's my young protégé's name. How appropriate. I assume you found new accommodations for the summer. I called the hotel earlier and they told me you'd checked out, so you get this email instead of my sexy voice._

_Catherine _

Smiling, Gil hit the 'reply' key, and began,

_Dear Catherine, _

_I did find new accommodations for the summer. In fact, I just moved in a little over an hour ago. Contact information is at the bottom of this email._

Gil paused, frowning as he debated how much to tell her. Sara had gone to such lengths to cut all ties from them, would she object to him divulging her whereabouts? Then, he remembered the excitement in her voice when she asked about them that day on the boat, and her admission that she missed the people she used to work with. She wasn't hiding anymore, and if she ever had, it hadn't been from them. That truth still hurt, but at least he could think it without being consumed with bitterness. He wouldn't blame Sara anymore for his past hurts. He never should have blamed her.

Turning his mind to more pleasant thoughts, he continued…

_But before I get to the particulars of this move, let me convey to you and Warrick my belated anniversary wishes._

_As for your new employee, you're handling her the right way. No one who comes into this job can ever predict how much it will take out of her. Faith will learn that eventually, and when she does, she will need your support. You'll be ready._

_And now back to the particulars of my summer accommodations. You and I haven't talked about Sara in years. I'm surprised you mentioned her in this last email when you've so carefully avoided her name in the past. I guessed it was out of concern for me, and I appreciated it. I never told you how I felt about her, but I believe you knew. What you might not know is that I never stopped looking for her. My mistake was in narrowing my search to the obvious places. Well, I found her where I least expected. She's Dan's neighbor in Provincetown. She inherited her grandmother's house and turned it into a very successful B&B. There's much more to this story than I have time to tell you, probably much more than you wish to know, so all I'll say is that I'll be spending the rest of the summer as her guest._

_She's happy, Catherine, but she seems to have missed us all. She spent the first six months away from us in Central America and became a very accomplished photographer. I'm on my way to an exhibit of her works in Truro this afternoon, so I must sign off. Dan is waiting for me. _

_Sara, I continue to hope, is also waiting for me._

_Gil_

He reread the last line, surprised that he'd written it. It revealed far more than he intended, and his finger hovered over the delete key at the familiar twinge of discomfort. But then, he dislodged the sensation with a deep breath, moved his hand over the keyboard, and pressed 'send' instead. He chalked it up to another step in turning a new leaf, and even managed a smile as he imagined Catherine's shock.

* * *

The restaurant Dan had chosen for lunch was a large roadside seafood chain just outside of Truro. For the sake of comfort, they had driven in Gil's Lexus, which he was now maneuvering into a tight spot in the crowded parking lot.

"Looks busy," Gil remarked, turning off the engine.

Dan stepped out of the car. "We'll probably have to wait for a table, but we're in no hurry; the exhibit doesn't open 'til three."

The restaurant was huge, noisy, and chaotic. Rough wood paneling covered the bottom half of walls, the upper half alternating between dark green and brick red paint, giving the place a dock-front atmosphere. The nets that hung from ceiling beams, and the game fish and lobster cages mounted on the walls, contributed to the image, though the lethargic state of the lobsters piled one on top of the other in an aquarium by the door rather ruined it.

"Best lobster in all of Cape Cod," Dan remarked as they slowly pushed their way through a throng of customers waiting for a table. Gil was about to suggest they go elsewhere when the attractive young woman behind a lectern greeted them warmly, despite looking tired and harassed.

Dan gave her his customary charming smile. "Colton," he said. "Party of two."

She noted the information on a seating chart and informed them of a twenty-minute wait. "You can have a drink in the bar until your table's ready," she suggested, motioning to her left to the area in question, which was as crowded as the restaurant and offered standing-room only.

Gil threw Dan a 'you've-got-to-be-kidding' look, but Dan only winked, said, "Let's go see what's on tap," leaving Gil to follow, shaking his head. He wondered at his friend's perpetual good mood as Dan cozied up to the bar having parted the crowd with a friendly smile or a gallant apology. Gil almost envied him.

Almost.

He let Dan buy him a beer, despite thinking that it was too early in the day for a drink. Too early for Gil, anyway, but never, it seemed, for Dan. As they made their way back to the edge of the crowd, near the archway separating the bar from the restaurant's reception area, Gil observed his friend as his gaze swept the dining room with more interest than seemed warranted.

"Looking for someone?"

Dan gave him a startled look, then, shaking his head, tipped the beer mug to his lips and looked back into the restaurant, his gaze trained to the rear this time where several patio doors led to an outdoor terrace. The place was buzzing with activity as young men and women navigated tight spaces between heavy wooden tables with trays of food balanced over their head. Others bussed tables as people left, and as soon as a table vacated, the hostess would call in the next party. The last announcement opened two seats at the bar. Gil alerted Dan to the empty seats with a back-handed tap on his arm, but Dan seemed reluctant to take one. "You go ahead," he said, motioning towards the dining room with his beer mug. "I'll be right back."

In some matters, Gil could be a very patient man, but as he sat at the bar, not even the bartender's entertaining antics as he prepared half a dozen different cocktails all at once—he was obviously playing to his audience--could take away a prick of irritation. But it had nothing to do with a strangely distracted Dan, or that he insisted on having lunch at a restaurant that couldn't accommodate them immediately. Gil had woken that morning with a knot of anticipation in his stomach at the thought of seeing Sara today. If he'd known she wouldn't be home when he arrived, he wouldn't have bothered going as far as Provincetown. He would have stopped in Truro on the way and asked Dan to join him there. But the unnecessary excess mileage wasn't responsible for his irritation either. Excitement had churned inside him as he approached Provincetown, but even more exhilarating had been the thought that for the next few weeks, at least, he'd be sharing her home. After six years without her, and another week missing her like hell, he was impatient to see her. He took a sip of beer, and glanced at his watch. Even if her showing didn't open 'till three, he could have gone early, perhaps helped her set up, stolen a few moments alone with her to--

"Look who I found," said Dan behind him, and Gil turned in his chair then froze as he came face-to-face with Sara.

"Hi," she said, her voice soft, barely above a whisper.

Despite having looked forward to the very moment he would set eyes on her again, Gil would have preferred a little warning. As it was, he had no doubt he was doing a fairly accurate imitation of that other species of warm-blooded vertebrae gracing the walls of the restaurant.

Gil clamped his jaw shut and shot Dan a glare as he rose from the bar stool, his breath painfully lodged in his throat. But even if he'd been prepared to see her, Gil doubted his reaction would have been less brutal. She looked gorgeous; in a way that made all those other times he'd thought so seem insignificant. Except perhaps for that one time when she wore nothing at all.

His eyes burned as of their own volition, they caressed every curve of her body right down to her open-toe, high-heeled sandal. There was no way a man could look at her in that dress and not want to drag her off to his cave. The urges it ignited in him were that primitive. Perhaps it was the way the softly flowing, pale lilac fabric hugged her body like a comfortable second skin, tricking the eye into believing it was transparent, when it wasn't. Or perhaps it was the hem cut, jagged like a gypsy's dress, at once demure and sexy, teasing the long legs it hid and revealed all at once. Or was it the darker lilac flowers sprinkled sparingly down to the very tip of the hems, like shadows in a cloud that made his fingers itch to touch and discover their mystery?

Gil swallowed and lifted his gaze to her face. "Hi," he managed on a breath. Her skin looked warm, and she was smiling, though a corner of her mouth twitched nervously. It gave him confidence. "You look—" he began, but finding the right word was an exercise in futility, so he abandoned the effort, letting his voice trail to nothingness instead.

Her smile widened into a grin. "Thanks."

"Patrick Armstrong," came a deep baritone that, along with an outstretched arm, would not be ignored. Gil hadn't noticed the man with Sara—how could he have?—but despite an irrational bout of irritation, he did the polite thing and grasped his hand.

"Gil Grissom," he returned pleasantly enough while sparing him a glance. He was a big man, taller than Gil by about three inches, and much younger. Early to mid-forties, Gil assessed, perhaps even younger given the receding hairline that would automatically add a few years to his face.

"It is always a pleasure to meet Sara's friends," Armstrong said with a tone of formality that seemed out of place in the loud and crowded restaurant.

"Patrick is the President of the art council," Dan explained as he turned his attention to Sara's companion. "We haven't seen you in a while."

"Ahh…through no choice of mine," Armstrong replied easily, but the look he gave Sara was filled with intimate details and familiarity that further irritated Gil.

"So," Dan started, addressing Sara on a long exhalation after a beat of silence, "are you all set for your big opening?"

"It's just a small showing at the local library," she chided, an adorable flush coloring her cheeks.

It seemed to charm Armstrong. "She's as modest as she is beautiful. Wouldn't you gentlemen agree?"

Gil deliberately set his gaze on Sara. Her cheeks were still glowing. "I've only seen one of her photographs, but if the others are as good, then I would have to agree with your assessment." He could sound pompous too with the right motivation.

Armstrong frowned. "Which one?"

Gil opened his mouth to answer, but Sara interrupted. "It's not one you've seen. It's not part of the collection."

"Sara Sidle. You've been holding out on me?"

"Not really. I just don't want to sell it."

"You still could have included it in your collection."

Sara's gaze shifted. "It's… uh, no big deal. Listen, guys, we have to get back to the library."

Taking his cue from her, Armstrong glanced at his watch. "Sara's absolutely correct. We left a very lovely but very flustered librarian in charge of putting the final touches to the refreshments table." He held out his hand to Gil. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Grissom."

"Uh…likewise," Gil lied as he grasped Armstrong's hand again. "And it's Gil," he added with his first outward, he thought, show of irritation at the man.

"We're treating Sara to dinner at Alfonso's later," Dan butted in jovially. "You're welcome to join us, Patrick."

Gil inwardly groaned and had to stop himself from shooting his friend a glare.

Armstrong smiled regretfully. "Sara has already conveyed the invitation, and as pleasurable as it would have been to celebrate with her friends, unfortunately I must decline due to a prior engagement." He gave Sara a warm, intimate look. "Again, not my choice."

Gil didn't realize he was staring until Dan caught his gaze and said, "What?"

"Nothing."

"Aw, come on, you're looking at me like you just discovered a new species of insect."

Gil shrugged. "Perhaps I have. A very sly one." Dan cocked a brow, inviting an explanation. "You knew she'd be here."

Dan smiled. "Surprise!"

On the heels of Sara's and Armstrong's departure, Gil and Dan had been escorted to their table. Dan ordered another beer while Gil settled for a virgin Caesar.

"So what's their story?" Gil asked.

Dan shrugged. "What makes you think there is one?"

Gil considered his friend for a moment. "Because you wanted me to see it."

Dan looked…surprised. "Why would I want that?"

"You tell me."

Sheepishly, Dan settled back in his chair and sipped at his beer, then laid his beer mug down on the table. "Okay, maybe I wanted to wake you up to the fact that she wouldn't be available forever. Other men are interested in her, you know."

"I'm aware of that." Gil thought back to David, Greg, and that Peddigrew guy, the one that still stung. "Why didn't you tell me she'd be here?"

"It was more fun this way."

"Some friend you are."

Dan raised his beer mug and smiled. "The entertainment value made it worth it."

"Right," Gil answered without blatant rancor, but not feeling all that generous toward his friend just then, he surprised himself by asking, "So what's with you and Stephanie?"

Much to his delight, Dan choked on his beer.

"Stephanie?"

"Are you going to tell me that you're indifferent to her?"

Dan settled back, regained his composure, and shrugged. "She's a kid. Come on, Gil, it would feel like…robbing the cradle."

Gil chuckled. "That's how I felt about Sara."

"Well Sara's much closer to you in age than Stephanie is to me."

"Perhaps, but she was my student once." Gil lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "We can't help who we fall for."

"I suppose." Dan looked contemplative for a moment. "So…are you going to tell her how you feel?"

"What makes you think she doesn't already know?"

"If she did, she wouldn't be giving that imbecile, Patrick, the time of day."

Gil gave Dan a sharp look. "Is she?"

"Who knows?" Dan chuckled and took another sip of beer. "Wanna sit back and do nothing while you find out?"

That one was a no-brainer. Gil sighed meaningfully. "No."

TBC


	8. Forgotten

**A/N: What can I say to make up for months of pretending this story doesn't exist? Nothing…except, I hope you enjoy this next installment. And also many, many thanks for your continued interest and feedback. I'd also like to thank my beta, Kim, although I suspect she's too easy on me. Danie**

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

The North Truro public library was a newly constructed, pale gray, clapboard Craftsman Bungalow. When Gil and Dan arrived at precisely three o'clock, the parking lot was almost full.

"This library is either unusually popular for a Saturday afternoon or Sara's collection is a hit," Gil remarked as he squeezed into one of the few remaining parking spaces.

"Actually the library closed at noon today. This is all for Sara."

"I'm impressed." Getting out of the car, they started across the parking lot to the library's main entrance. "She told me this was her first exhibit, so I assumed she'd be an unknown. How did her work get discovered?"

"Armstrong." Gil looked at Dan. "He hosted the annual Cape Cod art council meeting at her B&B a couple of months ago."

"I see." Gil's gaze was hugging the ground as they approached the front porch. "So… they haven't known each other very long?"

Dan jogged up the steps ahead of him. His fist closed around the door handle but he didn't immediately open it. "He spent a long weekend at the B&B with his kids last summer. If he's stayed there at other times, I'm not aware of it. I'm not there all the time, so... But they met last summer; that's when he first noticed her pictures. It took him a year to talk her into the exhibit."

"What was stopping her?"

Dan shrugged. "At first I thought she lacked confidence, but that wasn't it. She took these photos for her own pleasure and she wasn't ready to share them."

"Mmm… she's always valued her privacy," Gil returned absently, his attention drawn to the poster inside a glass display case mounted on the left side of the door. It was of a lighthouse sitting high on a bluff. The photo had been taken at dusk on an overcast day, the swirls of dark clouds and the shadows falling on the lone structure giving it a haunting quality. Underneath the photo, in a subtle cursive, were the words, _Forgotten, Black and White Photography by Sara Sidle_.

"Ready to go in?"

Intrigued, Gil nodded absently, giving the poster a final look before stepping inside the library proper.

Dan led the way past rows of books and a study area to a large and expertly illuminated room at the back. It was quite impressive for a small town library; the town of Truro was obviously serious about its art and its artists. Gil walked in, his gaze immediately searching the crowd for Sara. He spotted her across the room in conversation with a talkative elderly woman who held her captive with a hand on her forearm, and for a moment Gil watched, mesmerized. Sara's dark eyes were animated and her smile brilliant as she gave the woman and her story her undivided attention. She looked so happy now, radiant, Gil thought, as though having been freed of all the ghosts from her past. He jealously looked on, filled with regrets, wishing that he'd been at least partly responsible for her happiness. It wasn't as though she never given him the opportunity...

Dan shifted at his side and Gil welcomed the distraction. He'd been living with regret for the better part of six years, and while he couldn't undo the past, he could try to do better in the future.

"I hear the refreshments table calling me," Dan said. "I've seen all her work, but you go ahead. It's really quite good."

With that, Dan was cutting through the crowd toward the back where Sara was now joined by the ever present Patrick Armstrong. Every muscle in Gil stomach twisted as he watched Armstrong slip a possessive hand around her waist as he handed her a glass of wine. He murmured something close to her ear and Sara looked up, giving him a dazzling smile. Gil winced and sharply looked away, his gaze falling on the photographs mounted on the walls of the gallery. Falling in line behind other visitors, he slowly moved from one to the next, each photograph depicting an abandoned house or building or other structure, and even without the eye of an expert, he could appreciate their quiet beauty and the mood that had been so skillfully captured.

He was examining a photo of an old cemetery when he felt a tingle at the back of his neck. Looking back, his breath hitched a little as his gaze caught Sara's over his left shoulder.

"Hi," he said softly and she gave a small, affected smile before shifting her gaze to the photograph of the graveyard. "You're very good."

"Thanks," she murmured, the heat of a flush coloring her cheeks. "I'm glad you could come."

Sara fell into step with him as he moved to the next photo. It was a close-up of an old door. There was nothing particularly ornate about the door; the paint had flaked in several areas revealing the wood grain and some cracks where the wood had split over time. "It's an interesting subject," Gil remarked. "The whole collection is," he added, looking at her.

Sara kept her gaze firmly fixed on the picture as she made a small sound of agreement, but didn't offer more insight into her choice of subject. Her flush deepened, however, making Gil frown. She seemed uncomfortable and he wondered whether she really was glad that he was there or only being polite.

"Dan told me that you needed a lot of convincing to exhibit your work."

Her features contorted around a wry smile. "Yeah. I expected it to be embarrassing."

"And… Is it?"

"A little." She gave him an apologetic look. "Now that you're here."

"Mmm… Well, it's easier to reveal ourselves to strangers." They moved as one to the next picture, another old house, but this one much smaller than the others, no more than a shack even in its glory days. "An expert would look at this and judge the composition, the sharpness of the lines, the definition of shapes," Gil said, keeping his voice low against the backdrop of quiet murmurs surrounding them. "Others might only appreciate the mood you captured. An acquaintance might speculate about what it says about your personality or character that a run down shack would inspire you to immortalize it."

"Is that what you're wondering?"

Gil looked at her for a moment, and then shook his head. "I wonder what emotion these abandoned places touched in you. They're all broken, yet there's something hopeful in the mood you captured, as though in a moment someone will come along and bring them back to life. Did you identify with them? Is that how you felt, Sara? Forgotten?"

Sara smiled at his side, but he could tell it was forced. "That's very…intellectual," she murmured, "but way too deep."

The swell of emotions Gil witnessed in her eyes a moment before she looked away betrayed the lie. "Is it?" he persisted, but before she could answer, they were interrupted.

"Sara! There you are." Armstrong insinuated himself between them, invading the fragile cocoon of intimacy Gil thought they'd created. "I'm sorry, Gil, but I can't let you monopolize our guest of honor." To Sara, he said, "Several people want to meet you."

Gil wasn't fooled. If anyone wanted to monopolize Sara, it was Armstrong and it annoyed him almost as much as the possessive arm he slipped around her waist. Stuffing his fists inside his pockets, he looked up and caught the hint of apology in Sara's eyes, all other trace of emotion, gone. If anything, she looked relieved.

"I'll uh…see you later."

He nodded, forcing himself to smile pleasantly. "Duty calls."

With a quick smile in return, she excused herself and let Armstrong lead her away.

Gil watched them go, Armstrong's hand low on Sara's waist, and then abruptly turned to the wall, moving to the next photograph, then the next, not really seeing them anymore.

"Careful. You're looking a little green around the gills, Gil."

Gil grunted as he glanced at Dan. "Did they run out of booze at the refreshments table?"

"Ouch." Dan winced mockingly, evidently not overly chagrined at Gil's pointed remark. "So what do you think of the collection?"

"It's very good…excellent, actually."

"Mm," Dan agreed. "Armstrong is a leech, but he recognizes talent when he sees it."

"He's getting a cut of her sales?"

Dan chuckled, shaking his head. "That's not what I meant by leech." He pointedly turned his gaze to the back of the room, but then frowned. Gil heard the commotion and his gaze followed Dan's.

"Someone call an ambulance!" someone shouted from the back.

Dan took off and Gil followed in his wake albeit at a slower pace. Pushing through the tight circle of onlookers, his eyes fell on Sara first, then to the floor where Dan was crouched next to an elderly man who had collapsed. An elderly woman was kneeling on the floor, sobbing."

"Did someone call the paramedics?" Dan asked calmly as he pounded on the man's chest.

"I did," said a plump, flustered looking woman standing next to Sara. "They're on their way."

Dan stopped pounding and took the man's pulse. He then lowered his ear to the man's mouth. Satisfied he looked up at the woman. "Go wait for them out front, please," he directed, and then looked back at the crowd. "I need aspirin and a blanket."

Someone came forward with a Bayer's pill box. Dan took one out and slipped it under the man's tongue. His skin looked clammy and his breath was labored, Gil noticed, but at least he was breathing. A few minutes later, a young woman ran in with a blanket. "I always keep one in the car," she explained unnecessarily; everyone in the room was on edge.

The paramedics eventually arrived and the crowd split to make room for them. Dan spoke with one of them then came to find Gil. Sara was two steps behind him. "Heart attack," Dan said. "I'll ride in the ambulance with them."

"I'll follow in my car," Gil said but Dan shook his head.

"If the hospital doesn't have a cardiologist on staff, this may take a while. You two go on ahead to the restaurant. If everything goes well, I'll join you there later."

"How will you get back?" Sara asked.

He shrugged. "I'll get a lift or a cab. The hospital is not that far from here."

"Call me when you're ready," Gil said. "I'll come get you."

"Okay." Dan smiled. "And if I don't make it back in time, enjoy your dinner."

And with that, he left them to assist the paramedics and within minutes they were wheeling him out on a gurney. Sara visibly shuddered and folded her arms across her chest.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded. "A little shaken. I hope he makes it."

"Well, he has one of the best heart surgeons in the country with him. If it had to happen, he's lucky it happened here today."

Armstrong and the woman who had called the paramedics approached them. Sara introduced her as Darella Carter, the librarian.

"You just never know do you?" she said by way of greeting as she fanned herself.

"No. We never do," Gil returned politely, but his attention was no longer on Ms. Carter. Armstrong was running his hands up and down Sara's arms.

"You're cold." Armstrong removed his jacket to wrap it around her shoulders.

Sara smiled her thanks.

Gil could have kicked himself for not thinking of it first. A small consolation was that Armstrong's hands were finally off her.

"People are leaving," Ms. Carter remarked then, her disappointment evident. Conversely, Sara looked at the departing crowd with envy.

"Do you have to stay," Gil asked her and she turned a questioning gaze at Patrick.

"We can't close until six," he said glancing at his watch. "It's going on five now. I doubt anyone else will show up, but you should stay…just in case."

Gil bristled. Of course Armstrong wanted her to stay, and he strongly suspected it had little to do with the exhibit. However, he didn't think it was his place to interfere and he tried to mask his disappointment when Sara agreed with the man.

"Why don't you go ahead to the restaurant," she suggested. "I should help Ms. Carter and Patrick pack up anyway."

"I'll stay and help."

"No. That's okay—"

"Actually, Ms. Sidle, that won't be necessary," the librarian said. The buyer won't be picking up the collection until Tuesday, so I have plenty of time to get it ready for shipping."

Gil blinked. "You sold the entire collection?"

"Yeah." Sara smiled, pleased. "I lucked out. The owner of a Boston construction company stopped by and bought the whole thing."

"Congratulations."

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Armstrong added warmly. "I keep telling her how talented she is, but I don't think she believes me yet."

"Well then, I have my work cut out at dinner," Gil returned smoothly. "And you," he continued eyeing Sara, "must be in the mood to celebrate. Since you won't be needed here, why don't we get an early start on it?"

Gil could tell she was tempted.

Sara looked at Patrick again. "Gil's right, Patrick. I doubt anyone else will drop in. You should probably get going as well. Your kids are waiting for you."

"I'll stay until six," Ms. Carter offered, sealing the deal for all of them.

Armstrong had no choice but to let Sara go. Gil thought that he hid his displeasure remarkably well as he accepted the return of his jacket from her, but Gil wasn't fooled. Having felt very much the same way earlier, he recognized the tension in the other man. Sara didn't seem to notice however. She excused herself and left with Ms. Carter in the direction of what Gil guessed to be a small office at the back of her room, leaving him alone with a scowling Armstrong.

"Sara tells me you were her boss."

"Yes," Gil answered, not particularly interested in making small talk with the man, but his ingrained good manners and respect for Sara wouldn't allow him to dismiss him like the annoyance that he was. And thinking back on his conversation with Dan, it occurred to him that this could be a golden opportunity to do something about this…this guy who was a little too possessive of Sara for his liking.

"So what's a former boss of hers doing all the way out here?"

Gil smiled. He hadn't expected Armstrong to give him the perfect opening. "Strange isn't it? Especially if you believe that all I am to her is a former boss."

Armstrong's scowl deepened. "I'm very perceptive, Grissom. And I suspect so are you. You may have her to yourself this evening, but I'll be spending a few days at Summerhouse in a couple of weeks and I fully intend to make my intentions known then."

"Really?" Gil did his best to hide his growing frustration. "Well I look forward to seeing you then," and at Armstrong's suspicious look, he added, "Oh, didn't Sara tell you? I'm spending the summer with her."

Technically he wasn't spending the summer _with_ Sara, but rather as a paying guest in her establishment—a situation he hoped to change soon, but the small lie was worth the effect it had on Armstrong. His face darkened with such animosity that had Sara not returned at that moment, Gil suspected he might have been on the receiving end of a fist.

"Patrick," she said, touching his arm, "thank you for everything. This was an interesting experience."

Armstrong swiftly masked his anger with a smile for her. "The first of many, honey." Sara blinked, evidently surprised by the endearment. Gil held back a smirk; judging from Armstrong's expression, he hadn't counted on Sara's reaction. Frowning, Armstrong looked at Gil, politely extending his hand for Sara's benefit, no doubt. Gil shook his hand for her benefit as well. "I know you're in a hurry to get out of here, but I need to discuss some things with Sara before she leaves, so if you'll excuse us…"

"Of course." Ignoring the challenge in Armstrong's gaze, he looked at Sara, angling his head toward the exit. "I'll wait for you outside."

"I'll be right there."

Gil reluctantly left. In retrospect, he regretted goading Armstrong. It probably gave the man an incentive to _make his intentions known_ earlier than intended. Stepping out of the building, he glanced at his watch and waited. She joined him less than two minutes later—not that he'd been counting the seconds.

* * *

THEY WERE OVER an hour early for their reservation; the restaurant had just opened and the place was deserted. The maitre d' showed them to the bar while he prepared their table. 

"Would you like a drink," Gil asked as they settled into two comfortable bar stools.

"I'd love one."

"Well, this is a celebration drink, so we need something special. Champagne? Or even better… a Kir Royale?"

"Mmm… I haven't had one of those in—" She shook her head. "—a very long time."

They watched in silence as the bartender prepared their drinks in tall champagne flutes and when he set them on the gleaming wooden bar top in front of them, Gil lifted his to Sara's. He searched his mind and its considerable repertoire of famous quotes for something appropriate to say, but finally settled on, "To you, and the first of many successful exhibits."

"Thanks." She smiled as she touched her glass to his then lifted it to her lips.

Gil looked at her, so completely captivating in the gypsy dress. He'd never seen her in a dress before, a fact which reminded him how much she'd changed. She wasn't looking at him, wasn't saying anything, her attention on the bartender who was slicing lemons and preparing other fruity decorations as she quietly sipped her Kir Royale.

"You're quiet," he said when the silence was beginning to crowd them.

She finally looked at him and smiled. "Sorry. I'm not…" She looked away, taking another sip of her champagne cocktail.

"Not what?" She didn't answer, only shook her head, dismissing the question. "Sara, does being here with me make you uncomfortable?"

Her eyes darted to his and this time he noticed the flash of surprise in them. "No." And then with a wry smile added, "Well maybe a little."

"Why?"

She sighed. "Uncharted territory."

"True," he said. "But isn't that more interesting?"

She tipped her head, staring at him in bemusement. "You've changed."

"In what way?"

"Mr. _Don't-upset-my-predictable-little-world? _You were never the adventurous type, Grissom."

He playfully laid a palm over his heart. "You wound me." But he smiled because this was the Sara he was familiar with—the one who didn't mince words. And she had spoken the truth. He had changed—or was changing—which he readily admitted now. "But you're right. I learned not to waste time and energy trying to control that which is beyond my control."

"God-granted serenity, courage, and wisdom?"

"Or the school of hard-knocks."

"People who put their faith in God would say they come from the same place."

Gil sighed. "Well, if they're right, God sent me you—a beautiful gift. His mistake was to omit the operating instructions."

A shadow crossed Sara's gaze but just as quickly it was gone and her brown eyes sparkled as she laughed, making his stomach tighten. "And you're funny now, too."

For a moment Gil didn't respond, only looked at her, enjoying her wide grin after being deprived of it for so many years. As it began to fade to a small smile, he said, "I've always been funny, my dear…on the inside. But I wasn't being facetious just now; for a while, I honestly didn't know what to do about you."

Sara abruptly looked away, her lips suddenly closing in a tight downward arc as a slight flush colored her cheeks. Gil sensed her withdrawal and he felt a flash of impatience. But he couldn't say her reaction surprised him. It was the same one he'd been getting all week whenever he tried bringing up their past. She was friendly, had welcomed him like an old friend, but one mention of their past relationship and a wall went up with a big, bold _keep-out_ sign. The problem was that he didn't know how to move on without dealing with their past relationship.

The maitre d' saved him from pushing the issue when he returned telling them their table was ready.

Sara said nothing, but gathered her handbag and her drink and slid off the barstool. "Will it only be the two of you," the maitre d' asked as he led them to the back of the restaurant to a cozy table set for three with white linens, silver cutlery, and fresh flowers arranged in a low centerpiece. As he pulled Sara's chair, Gil slid into his own across the table from her.

"Probably, but leave the third place setting just in case our friend makes it." As if on cue, his cell phone rang. "Excuse me." Glancing at the display, he looked at Sara. "It's Dan." Into the phone, he said, "How's your patient?"

"Not well. He'll need emergency heart surgery so we're flying him to MassGeneral. Listen, I'm going along for the ride and won't be back until tomorrow sometime. I already talked to Stephanie; she'll keep Billy for the night, but I need someone to keep an eye on him until I get home tomorrow."

"No problem. How will you get back?"

"Probably drive, unless I can get a lift back with the helicopter pilot. I won't be performing the surgery; I'm just going along in case he relapses before they get him to the hospital."

"Well, don't worry about Billy. I'll keep an eye on him for you."

"Appreciate it. Oh, and tell Sara I'm very sorry about missing her celebration dinner."

Gil looked up at Sara who was listening to his end of the conversation with a small frown on her face. "She's right here if you want to tell her yourself."

"Wish I could, but I've got to run. Give her a big kiss for me, will you?"

"Right."

Dan chuckled. "See you tomorrow."

Gil slipped his phone into his jacket pocket. "They're flying the guy to Boston for emergency surgery. Dan's going along and won't be back until tomorrow."

"I hope he'll be okay."

The maitre d' who'd been keeping busy nearby while Gil was on the phone came back with their menus and a wine list.

"It will be only the two of us after all," Gil told him.

"Very well, sir. Would you like another cocktail before dinner?"

Sara finished the last of her cocktail and shook her head.

Gil looked up at the maitre d'. "Just wine with our dinner."

The maitre d' explained the table d'hôte and suggested a wine to go with each choice. "Pasquale will be your waiter this evening," he added as he cleared the third place setting. "He'll be with you in a few minutes to take your order."

Alone again, Sara sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. She gave him a quizzical look. "What did Dan want you to tell me?"

"Only that he was sorry he had to miss out on your celebration dinner. He also asked me to give you a big kiss from him, but I'm sure you'd rather he deliver that message personally."

"What makes you so sure?" His eyebrows shot up in surprise and she chuckled. "What? It's a fair question."

"Yes, and one that's likely to lead to a conversation you've been trying to avoid."

"You're right." Sara sighed. "Look, I know you have a lot of questions about the past and I won't deny that I'd rather we didn't rehash it, but if we're going to spend the next couple of months under the same roof we probably should so…" she unfolded her arms and sat forward, "…fire away."

His eyes narrowed on her face. "I have no intentions of interrogating you, Sara. I only wish you'd let me… reach you. You never used to run away from confrontation."

She smiled. "And you used to run away from it all the time."

He nodded, incapable of denying it. "Well, as you pointed out, I've changed."

"We both have."

Pasquale, their waiter, came then and Sara ordered the mushroom salad and linguine with Crab and Vodka. Gil didn't really care what he ate, but that sounded as good as anything else on the menu so he ordered the same thing and a bottle of Chardonnay. Meanwhile, a middle age couple being shown to a table nearby had captured Sara's attention and Gil let himself be distracted by them as well. They were both elegantly dressed, the woman wearing an ivory sequined dress that caught the light as she moved. Her husband, or at least Gil assumed he was since they were both wearing wedding bands, held her hand as he pulled her chair with his other, not releasing her hand until she was seated as the maitre d' hovered nearby. They, too, were celebrating something, he mused. Perhaps a birthday or a wedding anniversary…

Others were beginning to arrive as well, and a three-man band was setting up in a corner of the vast room. He wondered if Sara would want to dance. He wasn't much of a dancer, had never particularly enjoyed it, but the thought of holding her in his arms was an interesting incentive.

Their silence was companionable and Gil found himself relaxing in her presence for the first time all week. Although she'd invited his questions, he decided not to risk their fragile relationship with an interrogation. If the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity arose naturally, he would take it, but for now, he satisfied himself with the knowledge that she was open to dealing with their past.

The waiter returned with their wine and after completing the uncorking and tasting ritual and taking his leave, Sara swallowed almost half of her glass in one gulp then set it on the table.

Slowly, she looked up at him. "I got your emails."

_Okay._ He'd suspected as much, but to hear her confirm it now made him wince with embarrassment. While he didn't recall precisely what he'd written in them, he remembered enough to suddenly feel very exposed. He couldn't hold her gaze as he searched for an adequate response, but before he'd formulated one, Sara dropped another zinger.

"I didn't read them." His eyes shot up to hers. "Sorry."

He sighed. Disappointment? Relief? "Why?"

She fidgeted with the stem of her wine glass. "I…uh, wasn't in the right frame of mind I guess. It took me days to work up the courage to open your first one, but eventually I did." She gave him a crooked smile. "I was a bit of a masochist back then." A deep flush colored her cheeks. "I promised myself that I would never regret, uh…going to bed with you—no matter what. And then I started reading your email and couldn't bear your apologies—"

"I never apologized for sleeping with you."

She frowned. "Yes you did. It was humiliating. Anyway, I stopped reading and deleted it." Her lips quirked up. "And then I regretted it, so when the others came I filed them away in case I'd want to read them someday. But then my computer crashed and I lost everything." She took another sip of wine. "So that's the story with the emails."

Eyes downcast, she returned her glass of wine to the table. Her long lashes hid her eyes, but they couldn't hide the grief etched around her beautiful lips, or the slight twist of anguish in her pale features. Gil's chest tightened in memory of his own sorrow. He had never apologized or expressed any regret for sleeping with her. He was certain of that. But it pained him that he had destroyed her trust so completely that she would think he'd written to her to apologize for what he'd often thought of as the most memorable night of his life.

A cloud of sadness settled between them, then, and didn't lift until the band started playing. Sara inhaled sharply and looked up, her gaze on the many couples leaving their tables for the dance floor.

"Would you like to dance?"

Her eyes widened. "I didn't think you liked dancing."

"Not to most things. But this," he said of the slow ballad, "I think I can manage without embarrassing either of us." He reached across the table and took her hand in his. "Shall we?"

"Our food will be here any second."

"They won't bring it until we get back. C'mon, humor me."

She pursed her lips and rose from her seat and he held her hand all the way to the dance floor. Gently, he pulled her towards him as his other hand came to rest on the small of her back. She was right. He'd never been much of a dancer, but as her body flirted with his, he could finally appreciate the usefulness of the activity.

Gil started moving, slowly, and she followed, so lithe, her step falling in with his as though they'd been doing this for years. She felt delicate in his arms, not small, but fragile, and he applied more pressure on her back to draw her closer, molding her warm body to his. This close, her scent awaked memories of smooth skin, the glide of it against his, the taste of it on his tongue. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, his fingers moving gently over the soft fabric of her dress, itching to follow the curve of her spine—

"You're a good dancer," Sara suddenly said, drawing back to look at him.

"Shh…You're interfering with my concentration." She chuckled and let him draw her back into his arms. Smiling, he rocked playfully from side to side in tempo with the music. He appreciated her timing. His erotic memories coupled with the soft heat of her body pressed so close to his were much too arousing for Alfonso's on a Saturday night.

* * *

GIL COULDN'T HAVE BEEN more pleased with their evening. They had returned to their table in time for their meal. Pasquale was a little nervous, telling them that the warm mushroom salad had been ready for a while, but it tasted just fine. When the main course came, Gil asked Sara to tell him about Nicaragua and she immediately launched into a very interesting, at times entertaining, account of her experiences.

She told him about the people from Care Canada she hung around with for a while, visiting the poor and bringing aid to them. Her memories of Nicaragua were fond and sad, and cherished. She told him about the people she met and a trek in the jungle that lasted several days and got her to eat meat again.

"It was either that or starve," she said, smiling. "I used to like meat; I just got turned off it when I watched that pig decompose. Their beef didn't taste at all like our American beef though and maybe that helped. I also ate a lot of fish."

He kept her talking and then dessert came as she told him about leaving Nicaragua. "My mom died. I had to come back, and then I found out that I inherited this place in Provincetown, and I thought why not? Running a B&B was something I knew how to do, and fixing up that old place was a challenge and I needed one at that point." She took a sip of her coffee and laid the cup down in its saucer and then asked about him. But there wasn't much he could tell her.

Murder and mayhem didn't stop when she left and he didn't want to ruin what was turning into a very pleasant evening with confessions of six months of inebriety and near burn out because he couldn't deal with the pain of losing her.

He followed her home, whistling to an upbeat number that was playing when they left the restaurant. Sara pulled into her driveway. At this hour, the few parking spaces on the other side of the gate would probably be taken, so Gil parked on the street. She waited for him and they walked up to the front door together.

"I came to talk to your grandmother that day because I was intrigued. She was pruning a rose bush…that one," he said pointing to the large shrub fronting the house on the left, "but she'd let the rest of the yard grow to weeds. I wondered why."

"Yeah, well, there was probably a reason, but all I remember about her was that she was an ornery old woman." Sara punched in the code on the front lock. "Did Stephanie remember to give you the code?"

"No."

She gave it to him and they stepped inside. Gil could have said goodnight then, but he was reluctant to end the evening. The foyer was lit and Sara touched a switch that turned on some lamps in the great room.

"Would you like a coffee or a liqueur?" They had refused a liqueur at the restaurant because they both had to drive.

He almost said yes, only to keep her up a little longer. But it was almost eleven and he knew she had to be up early the next morning. "No, thank you. I'll sit out back for a while, if that's okay."

Sara smiled. "Would you like some company?"

"Of course. I thought you'd want to get to bed."

"Still early for me. Are you sure you wouldn't like a liqueur. I've got some good Cognac, or a Grand Marnier, if you'd prefer that?"

"Well, if you join me, then I'll have whatever you're having."

"Go ahead," she said, "I'll be right back."

Gil stepped out onto the back patio and removed his jacket, draping it on the back of a chair. It was a warm night, dark, moonless, but the sky was peppered with bright stars and he could hear the sounds of the harbor. Halogen lights twinkled in the garden shedding light onto the various paths. Gil walked to the edge of the patio and rolled up his sleeves then shoved his hands deeply into his pockets as he waited for Sara.

He heard the slide of the patio door, but didn't turn although he felt every step that brought her closer to him. His stomach clenched and unclenched and he pulled a breath just as she came up to him, handing him a snifter of Grand Marnier.

"Thank you." She smiled and, God help him but his head crowded with more erotic fantasies, which he quickly dismissed. _Rome was not built in one day._ "How did you know it was me all these years ago?"

"You mean with my grandmother?"

"Yes. And on the beach."

"I didn't know at first, but after I found out about you and Melanie the other night, I went out to the garage and pulled out an old box of pictures. I remembered taking a picture of you from that back gate—" She put her glass down on the patio table and hopped on one foot then the next as she removed her shoes. "I'll be right back." With her shoes dangling from her fingers by the straps, Sara went inside and within minutes returned with a Polaroid picture of a young man in tight shorts and a muscle shirt reaching for a Frisbee.

It was him.

Gil shook his head and looked at her as he returned the picture. "This is…weird."

"I know."

"The first time I met you at that seminar in San Francisco, I felt…" He sighed. "It was strange, but I felt a connection… as if I knew you'd become someone to be reckoned with."

Sara chuckled. "What would you have done, I wonder, if you'd known then how much of a pain in the ass I'd be?"

"Never that." Setting his glass down on the table next to hers, Gil reached for her hand. She stiffened and her gaze darted to their linked fingers then up again, her eyes widening. "Sara, I never apologized for sleeping with you. I know that because I never regretted it." He stepped closer until her breasts were almost brushing against his shirt and he heard her sharp intake of breath. But she remained very still. "In fact, I've dreamed of little else since then."

It started with a slow shake of her head and then her fingers slipped out of his and she took a small step back. "N-no, Gris. Don't. It took me a long time to get over you and I intend to keep it that way. We can be fr—"

Gil wasn't normally given to impulse. But before she could utter the dreaded, _"let's be friends"_, he caught her face between his hands and kissed her. His mouth molded to hers in a fast, hot meeting and clinging of lips flavored with Grand Marnier and for a heady moment, Sara responded. And then a small whimper escaped her throat and she tore her mouth from his, looking up at him with wide, frightened eyes. An apology instinctively rose to Gil's lips but he couldn't catch his breath long enough to make his voice work. Her breasts were heaving against him, her breathing as erratic as his own, and her dark pupils expanded until her eyes looked black in the soft light of the patio.

His hands still cupping her face, Gil touched his forehead to hers. When she didn't resist, he closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, sucking in deep breaths until the sensual haze clouding his brain began to subside. He probably owed her an apology but why bother if he couldn't make it sound genuine? And he wasn't sorry. For the first time in six years, he felt alive. His heart was pounding, his blood was rushing hot and fast through his veins, and his body was rigid and shaking with need.

Slowly, his hands moved down from her face to her shoulders and her waist and he wrapped his arms around her, trapping her hands against his chest.

"I've missed you," he whispered as he gently kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger on her soft skin for a moment before drawing back to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted, and the temptation to kiss her again was almost too strong to resist except that common sense was finally beginning to prevail. As much as he wanted to break through her resistance and seduce her up the stairs to the Eagle's Nest, Gil was aware of what he'd be risking if she wasn't ready to acknowledge that there was still something simmering between them.

"Sara…"

She opened her eyes and blinked as though coming out of a trance; suddenly, she stiffened in his arms and pushed at his chest. Gil released her.

"You shouldn't have done that." Her voice was low and raspy, and he could see her throat working as though she was having difficulty swallowing.

He smiled. "Perhaps. But I can't resist an experiment."

"This proves nothing, Grissom." Sara stepped around him and picked up her drink from the table. "Don't forget to lock up when you go in." And with that, she turned and started walking across the yard to the smaller patio off her bedroom.

"Sara," he called out just as she was about to disappear behind the fishpond. She stopped and turned, but even from the short distance he could clearly see the turbulence in her eyes. Gil suspected that she was much angrier with herself than she was with him.

"What?"

"You're wrong, you know. It did prove something. It proved that you're not over me."

TBC


	9. New Friends

Disclaimer in Chapter 1. Chapter 9, New Friends by Vplasgirl.

* * *

**Chapter 9 – New Friends**

Gil awoke from his most restful night's sleep in recent memory. The bed in the Eagle's Nest Suite was top of the line as was everything else at Summerhouse. He hadn't closed the windows, or the curtains, before going to bed—privacy wasn't an issue in his third floor room overlooking the water—so the morning sun was pouring into the room and the curtains were dancing on the soft ocean breeze, carrying in the smells and sounds of a coastal summer.

And, somewhere on the grounds was a woman who was most definitely not over him.

It was something to smile about, which he did as he stretched lazily, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. He didn't normally sleep in this late but he'd burned the midnight oil digging up his old emails to Sara from his archives. Glancing across the room at his laptop computer and the document that was still open behind the screensaver, his smile faded. He had transferred the entire folder labeled '_Sara_' to his hard drive, launched the oldest file, his very first email to her, and then stepped away from the computer in a cold sweat.

He couldn't bring himself to read it.

He didn't fear the content of the letter. That wasn't it. But the thought of reliving that very dark period of his life… He wasn't ready to do that yet. Some bruises were still too sensitive to poke.

Remembering his promise to Dan to look after Billy until his return, he got out of bed and headed for the shower.

XXXXX

THE DINING ROOM was almost filled with other guests when Gil went downstairs, and the thought of eating at the same table—and making small talk—with strangers didn't appeal to him. It was one of the reasons he never stayed at B&Bs. In every other way, Summerhouse was managed more like an Inn than a B&B, but in the dining room, there was one large table that guests shared. While typical B&B patrons enjoyed the socializing that this type of establishment offered, Gil wasn't one of them. Fortunately Stephanie quickly met him at the dining room door and discretely suggested the back patio for breakfast.

"Sara thought you'd be more comfortable there," she said softly, and Gil smiled as he followed her, eyeing the kitchen door on their way to the back.

"Is she in there?"

"Sara?" Stephanie nodded.

He itched to see her. He had thought of little else since waking up. And if he had thought for a second that she would feel the same way, he would have stopped by the kitchen. However, given her reaction to his kiss the night before, he decided it would be more prudent to let her come to him. In her own time.

The table was already set for one on the patio, and Billy was sitting on the step playing with one of these handheld electronic games every kid seemed to own these days.

"Morning, Billy."

"Mornin'," the boy muttered without looking up and Gil inwardly sighed. He was in for a long, frustrating day.

Deciding to ignore Billy for now-as long as the boy was within his sight, he figured he was fulfilling his promise to Dan-Gil took a seat at the table. Stephanie came back with a wine glass filled with freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee and the morning paper.

"Our main dish this morning is a wild mushroom omelet, but Sara thought you'd probably prefer our homemade Muesli with local honey or Canadian maple syrup, fresh fruit, and a chocolate brioche that is to die for. We also have the usual fresh croissants and homemade apricot, strawberry, or grape jams, or an apple muffin if you'd prefer that." She smiled. "Or a little of everything."

Gil's mouth watered. "Does it include a membership to the local gym?"

Stephanie chuckled. "Actually, Sara has a pretty good setup in the basement, although she doesn't advertise it. Her gym isn't really big enough to accommodate several guests at a time and she doesn't think it's pretty enough, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind sharing it with you if you asked her."

"I may have to."

Gil ordered the Muesli with honey and fresh fruit, was tempted but skipped the chocolate brioche, and all other pastries, and then Stephanie left. He sat back with every intention of enjoying the morning paper until Billy surprised him by speaking.

"Dad said you used to catch criminals."

Gil blinked and looked up. "I did."

"How did you do that?"

Gil put down his paper. "Well, in a nutshell, by collecting evidence at crime scenes and analyzing it."

Billy was looking at him with mild interest, but his expression was still guarded. "Like fingerprints and stuff?"

"Fingerprints, DNA… Why do you ask?"

"Somebody stole my friend's bike yesterday, but the cop said he can't do anything about it and he probably won't get it back."

"Where was the bike stolen?"

"At the beach. The guy cut the lock."

Gil stopped himself from cautioning Billy against jumping to any conclusions about the perp's gender, although he was probably right. "Did he leave the lock behind?"

"Yes. Does that mean you can get fingerprints off it?"

"Maybe. But the thief's fingerprints would have to be in the system in order to be identified."

"The cop didn't want to take fingerprints."

"Probably because more often than not a petty thief's fingerprints aren't in the system. Cops don't want to waste time lifting prints knowing that they're unlikely to lead anywhere."

Billy's brow knitted in concentration, and then he got up and came to sit across from Gil at the table. He flopped back into the chair and looked at him with growing interest. "But if they lifted prints and put them in the system every time, wouldn't it make it easier to catch these criminals the next time they steal something?"

Gil chuckled. "You've got a point."

"Can you lift the prints from the lock?"

"Sure. I'd have to take your friend's fingerprints to eliminate them. And yours if you touched it." Seeing an opportunity to finally bond with Dan's son, Gil's excitement grew. "We'd have to make fingerprinting powder first."

Billy's eyes got bigger. "You know how to do that?"

Gil smiled. "Of course," he said. "Is there a stationery store, or a dollar store, in town?"

Billy was now sitting forward in his chair. "There's a Kinkos and a Buck or Two."

"That should do it. Go call your friend and tell him to meet us here at three this afternoon with the lock. Tell him to handle it very carefully so he doesn't smudge any prints that may be on it. We'll take it from there. Meanwhile, we're going shopping."

Billy bounded out of his chair and went inside to call his friend. Gil smiled and raised his paper. Stephanie came with his breakfast, and even though Sara had yet to make an appearance, he was filled with positive thoughts. The day was warm, the sun was bright, and Billy was finally smiling. And if he could accomplish that, he figured anything was possible.

It would be a good day after all.

XXXXX

BY NOON THEIR shopping was done and Gil and Billy were in a small seafood restaurant on the main drag, a tourist trap, but then so was all of Provincetown during the summer months. This one served fresh oysters and Gil was surprised to learn that Billy liked them. The oyster bar was at the front of the busy restaurant, but Gil chose a small table at the back covered with a checkered red and white plastic table cloth. He ordered two dozens oysters and when they came, Gil watched Billy slurp his first one—and gag.

"You said you liked oysters."

Billy took a long swallow of his soft drink. "I do," he said and then swallowed another one. His eyes watered.

"Billy, it's okay if you don't like oysters. You can order something else."

Gil bit back his amusement as the boy's shoulders shook on a repressed shudder. "Dad likes them too."

"It's an acquired taste. I suspect yours are more refined." Smiling, he handed Billy the menu and motioned for the waitress.

Billy ordered a burger, but Gil was pleased with the boy's willingness to endure a meal he disliked to impress him.

His burger served, Billy took a huge bite, then smiled and spoke around his food. "So Sara's pretty cool, huh?"

The oyster Gil had just sucked from its shell got caught in his throat making him cough and swallow convulsively; his eyes watered and he grabbed his water glass, downing its content before nodding at Billy.

"Dad said you like her, like her."

Gil cleared his throat. "Yeah. I do," he replied, baffled by the lack of animosity in the kid's voice.

"Mister Armstrong likes her, too."

The next shell froze half-way to Gil's mouth. He slowly returned it, untouched, to the platter and reached for his wine glass. He was quite certain he couldn't stomach one more anyway. "Do you like Mr. Armstrong?"

One of the boy's shoulders went up in a shrug. "He's alright, I suppose, for a stiff." Gil bit his lip not to laugh—or agree. "But one of his sons is a real jerk. He talks like he's all superior and stuff."

_Like father like son_.

Billy took another bite of his burger and swallowed it down with a long draw on the straw in his soft drink. "The younger son, Eric, is okay, and I think Sara likes him best," he continued, and suddenly Gil was reminded of the four year old boy he'd met years ago who never stopped talking. Dan would be impressed. "But if you want her, you'd better make your move because they're coming in a couple of weeks."

Gil didn't know what to say. It bewildered him that Dan's kid, the very same kid that a few days ago wouldn't talk to him because of some boyish possessiveness towards Sara, was now telling him to stake his claim before Armstrong showed up. He didn't know what Dan had told his son, but whatever it was seemed to have worked.

Or maybe Billy saw Gil as the lesser of two evils. He almost asked, but then thought better of it. Instead, he carefully said, "I thought you wanted Sara for your dad."

The boy shrugged again. "Not gonna happen. Dad says you can't make those things happen. Like, if you're friends for a long time, it's probably because you don't like each other that way."

Gil tilted his head and considered the lad for a moment. "Well, yeah, most of the time that's true, I suppose. But, there are exceptions. Sara and I were friends for a very long time. She used to work for me. I liked her, liked her…" Gil smiled as Billy swallowed the last bite of his burger and burped, "...but I couldn't do anything about that at the time."

Billy wiped his mouth with his napkin and looked up, his gaze perplexed, but at the same time, oddly understanding. "Because you were her boss."

"Well, mostly that."

"That's stupid."

Gil laughed. "You're probably right. I think that's what Sara thought as well." Gil got the waitress's attention and motioned for the bill. "It's time to go lift prints."

"You won't really be able to catch the thief, will you?"

"Nah. But it will be fun trying anyway."

Billy smiled. "Yeah."

XXXXX

BACK AT SUMMERHOUSE, Gil carried their purchases out to the patio and left them with Billy while he went back inside in search of Sara. Instead, he found Stephanie at the front desk marking points of interest on a town map for a young couple. He waited until she had waved them off and turned to him with the same pleasant and genuine smile that always seemed to come so easily to her. And suddenly there was a flash of recognition that made Gil stare at her until her smile faltered and she shifted self-consciously.

"Is everything okay?"

Gil cleared his throat. "Sorry. Yes. I'm looking for Sara, actually."

"She's lying down. She's got a whopper of a headache. I think it's a migraine, but she just calls them bad headaches.

"Not a migraine, then?"

Stephanie shrugged. "She tells me they're not migraines, but when they hit they're debilitating, so in my somewhat professional opinion, I think they're migraines."

Her smile was back and whereas Gil's memory of the woman she resembled was understandably blurred—he'd last seen her well over a decade ago, and even then, they had only met twice—Dan would not have forgotten; he would recognize a smile so like Carol's. Gil now understood his friend's attraction to this young woman, a girl really, young enough to be his daughter, and regretted razzing him about it the day before, even if Dan had deserved it.

But any regrets were trumped by another, more pressing concern. Having been plagued by migraines for the better part of fifteen years, Gil didn't have to guess at the pain Sara was suffering, and he wanted to see her.

"Is she sleeping, do you think?"

"I don't know. You can go look in on her, if you want. Through the kitchen, second door on the left."

Gil glanced at the kitchen door before looking back at Stephanie, a brow raised quizzically, which turned that smile of hers into a knowing grin.

"Billy—"

"I'll keep an eye on him," she called out as she left him to join Billy outside.

Gil hesitated only momentarily before heading for the kitchen. The first door, he knew, led to the dining-room. At the second door, he paused again, wishing Stephanie had shared what it was she knew of his and Sara's relationship that made her believe Sara would welcome him in her bedroom, because he could have used a shot of her confidence just then. If asked, he could always say he needed a pestle and mortar, which was true, but he wasn't going to pretend with himself that making printing powder had anything to do with him invading Sara's privacy. He could just as easily have asked Stephanie for them.

He took a steadying breath and knocked softly on her door. When she didn't answer, he let himself in.

The first thing he noticed was the gloom, the shadows fighting the afternoon brightness slanting through the vertical blinds at the French doors. Sara was resting on her back, on top of the sheets, fully dressed; she had shoved the pillows and the big fluffy duvet comforter aside in the big four-poster bed. Her eyes were covered with a sleeping mask. The door didn't make a sound when Gil closed it behind him. He stepped into the room and took in the antique dresser, vanity table, and armoire set, all from her grandmother's era, he was sure. There was a fireplace, one of the Georgian twins, carved into the exterior wall on one side of the room. It was framed by a pair of old wingback chairs. More furniture from her grandmother's era, but it looked well-used and comfortable and Sara had added her own personality to the room by painting the walls a deep shade of blue.

Gil approached her bed quietly. He didn't want to startle her awake, and if she had a migraine, he didn't want to wake her at all. But any thoughts of leaving her to her rest were muted by this need to be near her. Her fragrance permeated this room, drawing him in even as he knew he should leave, and his heart swelled with an almost overwhelming sensation of tenderness as he watched her sleep. He wanted to crawl into bed with her, wrap his arms around her, kiss away the two small vertical lines of tension on her forehead, comfort her. It was this need to protect and shelter her that had eventually opened his eyes to what it was to love someone, and while he had always been more adept at controlling his physical urges, he never could stay away from her when she was suffering.

"Stephanie?"

"No," Gil whispered, his voice scratchy. He cleared his throat. "It's me."

Sara shoved herself up into a half-sitting position as she yanked the mask off her face. "Gris?"

He sat on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

She looked poised to bolt from the bed and Gil was sure she would have done just that had she not had to climb over him first. Instead, she leaned back on her elbows and gave him a quizzical look.

"Why are you here?"

"Stephanie said you had a migraine."

Sara exhaled loudly and eased herself back onto the mattress. "I don't get migraines. It's just a headache, and it's better now."

Gil slipped a hand underneath her nape. She flinched at the contact but he ignored it and gently slipped a pillow under her head. When Sara winced, he smiled. "I can tell you're much better." Glancing at the bottle of extra strength Tylenol on the bedside table, he said, "How long since you took those?"

"A couple of hours ago. Look, Gris, I'm fine, really. They're just tension headaches."

"Maybe. Stephanie seems to think otherwise. I've had migraines for years—"

"I didn't know that."

Gil shrugged. "Stress or anxiety are my triggers, and for years I too believed they were tension headaches. Have you seen a doctor?"

Sara shook her head.

"You should."

He only became aware that he'd been stroking the nape of her neck when Sara closed her eyes and moaned softly. "You're taking care of me again," she whispered, and then her lashes fluttered open and she gazed at him with such naked affection, his heart took a tumble. "Is Dan back?"

"Not yet. Stephanie's with Billy. We're going to be making fingerprint powder."

Sara's eyes widened...in excitement? "Really?"

"Yep. Billy's friend got his bike stolen and he wants me to catch the thief."

"That sounds like fun. Need help?" she asked, sitting up.

Gil rose to his feet. "Are you feeling up to it?"

"Yeah, I think the worst of it is over."

"I apologize for coming in here—without an invitation, I mean."

"That's okay." Sara flung her feet over the edge of the bed and looked up at him, grinning—flirtatiously, he thought. She opened her mouth to say something but then seemed to change her mind. Frowning, she rose to her feet and neither of them spoke for a moment, a silence filled with words that could have been left unsaid except that Gil didn't want to do that anymore.

"Sara, about last night—"

Shaking her head, she said, "Let's not…"

"Okay. I'll uh…" He motioned to the door with a careless hand, "…go." At the door, he remembered the excuse he had planned to use for penetrating her sanctuary. "I need a pestle and mortar if you have one. To make the powder."

"I do. I'll be right out."

"Thank you." And smiling, he left her room as quietly as he had entered it.

XXXXX

THE COLD WATER made Sara's pores tingle and shocked the sleep from her eyes, but it did little to cool her skin. Which was hardly surprising. A splash of cold water was hardly a cure for what ailed her.

She imagined that if her childhood had resembled those of her school mates—not that she had known at the time that they didn't all live on a battlefield with parents too invested in one-upping each other to pay much attention to their children—she would have learned some fundamental facts of life at a very early age, such as when you play with fire you get burned. A slow study in all things involving her emotions, she hadn't learned until much later that it was better to give fires a wide berth even if it devoid your life of heat.

Heat was not a problem now thanks to Grissom. One kiss and it was taking everything in her to remember how painful his burn could be. The fact that he seemed more than willing to pick up where they left off six years ago—and that was in bed, she hadn't imagined the hunger in his eyes last night—made him that much more difficult to resist.

As a parting gift to herself when she left Las Vegas, Sara had taken from Grissom as much as she knew him capable of giving. And he had obliged her; probably to assuage his guilt. She had never dwelled on his reasons for letting her seduce him. If she had wanted her delusions of near perfection shattered, she wouldn't have left before he woke up the next morning.

But clinging to a memory she had idealized, and probably embellished, over the years had been a mistake. If she had given him a final opportunity to completely crush any hope of a relationship with him instead of leaving like a thief in the night, or if she had read his emails and the regret and apologies she was certain they contained, she might have moved on in time. But Grissom was right the night before when he so smugly said that she wasn't over him; she knew it that day on Dan's boat, and now, to her horror, he knew it as well.

How pathetic he must think her despite all appearances that her greatest weakness flattered him. Oh, she had stopped fantasizing about Grissom as the perfect mate a long, long time ago. It was difficult at first. For the first two years, give or take a few months, she thought about him constantly—had missed him every day. But in time, he had become a memory, albeit a cherished one.

That last night in Las Vegas, in a cheap, pitiful motel room, she had finally felt love, and for a long time after that, refused to acknowledge that it had been an illusion. How often had Grissom made her heart flutter only to turn it to ice when the mood struck him, reminding her that he would never feel for her what she felt for him? She had good reasons to abandon her career as a CSI, none to do with him specifically, but her need to distance herself from him had driven her as far away from Las Vegas as possible. Just as the need to be close to him had sent her there to begin with.

Still, she had clung to the fantasy that what she had seen in his eyes that night, what she had felt in his touch and heard in his voice and in his whispered endearments, was love, because it was the only way she could leave with her heart intact.

Had she just tricked herself into believing it again? Was she reading too much in his gentle touch and tender gaze?

Sara blotted the moisture from her skin with a fresh towel and applied lip gloss and a light dusting of blush. Her headache was thankfully gone. Stephanie liked to call them migraines, but she was sure they weren't. They were tension headaches and if they had come more frequently in the past week, she could blame them on the shock of finding Grissom on her doorstep. The fact that she hadn't slept a wink last night hadn't helped.

In the kitchen, she rummaged through a cupboard for the pestle and mortar Grissom needed, steeling herself for their next meeting. His kiss last night had thrown her off her game, but she was back and stronger now. She had to be. She had briefly let the starlight and the romantic undertones of their evening go to her head, but in the long sleepless hours that followed, her perspective had been restored. Or so she had thought. But either way, in the bright light of day, she remembered that nothing good ever came of being in love with Gil Grissom. And she would be a fool to forget that.

So what if she had responded to his kiss last night? What if she had come within a hair's breadth of flirting with him just now? Why wouldn't she respond to him? He was a very attractive man, one she still admired and respected, and it had been a very long time since she had let a man touch her. Six years, to be exact. Pathetic, yes. But that alone explained why she would have needed little encouragement to fall into bed with him. Thank God he had stopped kissing her when he did last night. Not that there was anything wrong with a good tumble in the sheets every once in a while. She could have enjoyed a few in the past six years had she felt more than a fleeting flutter of physical attraction for some of the men who had crossed her path since Grissom.

Which brought Patrick to mind. He had yet to touch her in any way that could be interpreted as sexually suggestive, but he had made his interest in her very clear. She always pretended not to notice. Patrick had two young children, and as much as she had enjoyed having them at Summerhouse for a few days the year before, she simply couldn't see herself in the role of stepmother. She had carefully kept her relationship with Dan platonic for the same reason.

Yet she adored Billy.

Sara frowned as she absently filled glasses with iced tea for the adults and lemonade for the boys, and set them on a tray to carry out. Despite how many men she had attracted over the years, she had never let any of them into her bedroom. There was always something. If not kids, then something else. Ben—gorgeous Ben with a body to make a woman's mouth water; they met in Nicaragua at the tail end of his five-year marriage and Sara quickly decided she didn't want to be his rebound girl...not that he would have been anything other than her rebound guy. And then there was Kyle, one of Dan's colleagues and a close enough friend that he was invited to his Independence Day cruise a couple of summers ago. He wasn't as pretty as Ben, but definitely more interesting. If only he didn't live in Boston she told herself at the time. She didn't have much faith in long-distance relationships. Last summer it was Jack, her baker's nephew from New York. Jack was both good-looking and interesting, had never married, didn't have children, and had made his first million in real estate by the age of thirty. His uncle was extremely proud of him and hoped that Sara would help cure him of his philandering ways. She couldn't remember what was wrong with Jack exactly, but several dates after which she still refused to let him so much as kiss her, he quietly went away to never be heard from again.

Sara paused inside the open patio door, looking at Grissom who was flanked by Billy on one side, and Billy's friend, Sean on the other. He had set his purchases out on the table and was explaining the science of fingerprinting to the boys. She only had to look at him for her heart to swell the way it had a thousand times before. Even as a child, it had skipped at the sight of him.

How strange that they had met for the first time all those years ago, and since crossed paths again and again. And then, to fall in love with him…

For all her rationalizations, and it finally occurred to Sara that was precisely what they had been, there was nothing wrong with Ben or Kyle or Jack except that they weren't Grissom. And if they had paled in comparison, they were hardly to blame. After all, a woman in her prime who remains celibate for six years because she wants her last memory of making love to be with a man who was never emotionally available to her—except for that one night when he belonged to her as surely as she belonged to him—could hardly be objective in her assessment of other men.

Sara sighed as she watched him with the boys, cursing her body's instinctive response to him. It was as though it reacted without her permission. Even now, after everything that had happened between them, after the astonishing depth of the pain that had been her constant companion for months after leaving him—convincing her that losing a limb would have been less disorienting than cutting him out of her life—she was still drawn to him. Even knowing that he would be out of her life again in a few weeks, she found herself flirting with the idea of letting him seduce her. It would be so easy, so exciting to succumb to him. What if she was emotionally strong enough now? What if she could take what he so clearly offered and survived it?

A small flicker of fear in her chest raised a flag of caution. _Careful_, her heart whispered. _Be very, very careful._ Wanting had never been the problem. It was the wanting more that had always led to disappointment, and with Grissom, she had always wanted more.

He suddenly looked up and their gazes locked. The warm, welcoming smile that flitted around his lips made her heart trip. She took a long, slow breath, and another, willing it to settle. And for a moment, a fleeting moment, his smile faltered and his eyes darkened with something…intimate, stoking the embers of desire he had stirred back to life the night before.

And then his smile was back and the moment was already a memory.

"Boys," he said, "we have with us one of the best fingerprint technicians I've ever worked with."

With a smile of her own, one Sara hoped looked more genuine than it felt, she quieted her fantasies and joined Grissom and the boys out on the patio.


	10. No Rest for Sherlock

Chapter Three

**A/N: Thank you to Rica for the quick and insightful beta. **

**Chapter Ten **

THE BOYS WERE CROWDING GIL, but he didn't care. Their interest in fingerprinting and enthusiasm about having a real-life crime scene investigator on the case of the stolen bike made them hanging over his shoulders bearable. Besides, the Sherlock in him never rested it seemed, and the opportunity to teach their young minds a subject he loved brought back an edge of excitement that had been missing from his job in recent years.

And then there was Sara. It occurred to him that he could have been picking weeds out of the garden with Billy and Sean—a chore he had hated as a child and avoided as an adult—and thoroughly enjoyed it because she was there. And the softness in her eyes a moment ago when he glanced up and caught her staring at him had made his heart flutter. He'd liked the feeling.

But his heart's erratic behavior wasn't what made him thankful that he was sitting at Sara's patio table under cover of the hard, textured glass top. He'd never wanted to be that dime-a-dozen guy who couldn't look at an attractive woman without picturing her naked, sweaty, and under him. He liked that he could appreciate a woman's beauty on a much more intellectual level. But around Sara, self-control—at least where a certain part of his anatomy was concerned—was tougher to sustain.

He couldn't even pretend that the short shorts she was wearing, which showed off her perfect legs, and his vivid memories of how they felt wrapped around him, were responsible for his sudden, unexpected arousal. Almost from their first meeting in a crowded lecture hall, he had wanted her naked, sweaty, and under him. And maybe he had resented her a little over the years for reducing him to the lowest denomination of men.

Sara smiled now as she took a seat across from him, and heat of a different kind swelled in his chest. He hadn't known what to expect after their awkward moment in her bedroom, but her smile was once again warm and welcoming, as it had been on his first day here. In fact, her behavior toward him was so unpredictable that he constantly teetered between walking the proverbial tightrope, and crowing like a confident cock. Most of the time, though, he was stuck somewhere in the middle. Confused. For all his arrogant assumptions the night before that she wasn't over him, the truth was, he couldn't be sure.

After serving them cold drinks, Sara handed him the pestle and mortar. While he crushed pencil lead into powder, she picked up the blush brush he and Billy had purchased at Buck or Two and twirled it between her fingertips with the delicate touch of a pro. The boys looked on, impressed.

Gil smiled. "You haven't lost your touch."

"Like riding a bike," she said, looking up at him with a quick grin.

So beautiful.

Gil sighed. "Well, you are one of the best I've seen."

Sara beamed at him, then her expression changed as she looked at the boys, brows seriously knitted. "That's called buttering up the help, guys. It's Gil's way of shifting the responsibility of finding your bike on to me."

"We know we're not going to find it," Billy said. "Doesn't matter."

"Really?"

"They just want to know how it's done." Gil put the mortar aside and wiped a glass with a handkerchief before setting it on the table. "Pick it up," he instructed Sean, and once satisfied he'd captured his prints, told him to put it back.

Sara dipped the brush into the powder and swirled it on the surface of the glass, making a clear impression of Sean's fingerprints. Gil then lifted it with clear tape. Working silently, as they often had in the past, they repeated the procedure with Billy. And finally, they printed the lock. Before long they had lifted six clear prints from the lock and matched five of them to Billy's and Sean's.

With a self-satisfied grin, Gil showed them the impression of the sixth print. "And this is your suspect."

Billy and Sean leaned closer to peer at the crisp impression of a thumb.

"I bet it belongs to that jerk who's always picking on little kids at the beach," Sean said.

"Dirk," Billy agreed. "Yeah, he's a real piece of shi—"

"Billy!"

"Dad!" Billy rushed to greet Dan who was coming up the garden path. "Gil showed us how to lift fingerprints. See…" Another leap brought him back to the table and he yanked the tape from Gil's fingers. "Some guy cut the lock on Sean's bike and stole it. Me and Gil went to get a bunch of stuff at Buck or Two, and then he made us hold these glasses to take our fingerprints and Sara brushed the black powder on them and the cable lock and—"

"Whoa, whoa!" Dan laughed. "Take a breath, son."

"We got the guy," Billy said.

Sara rescued the tape from Billy's fingers and smoothed it down on a sheet of white paper. "Actually, all we have is this fingerprint, kiddo. It could belong to anyone." To Dan she said, "How's your patient?"

Dan pulled a chair. "He was in surgery when I left, but the prognosis is good."

"How did you get back?" Gil asked.

"Chopper Dave."

Sara got up and laid a hand on Dan's shoulder. "Can I offer you a cold drink? I have some iced tea on tap."

Dan smiled crookedly up at her. "Iced tea, huh? I guess that'll do for now."

She went inside and Dan leaned over to Gil. His gaze flicked over to Billy and Sean who had moved to the edge of the patio to whisper over the suspect's thumb print. "What have you done to my son?"

Gil shrugged, and then, keeping his voice low, said, "The better question is, what did you do to him? A week ago he couldn't bear the sight of me. Now he's telling me to make my move on Sara before Armstrong shows up."

"Really?" Dan's laugh started deep in his throat, then blew out long and loud, distracting the boys from their tête-à-tête, and when Sara came back with another glass and the pitcher of tea, she gave them a quizzical look.

"Did I miss a joke?"

"Yeah, Dad, what's so funny?"

Still chuckling, Dan said, "You are, little man."

"What did he do?" Sara asked as she poured Dan's tea and refilled Gil's glass.

"He grew up. Hey, who's up for lobster? My treat."

"Me!" Billy shouted. "Where are we going? Can Sean come, too?"

"We're not going anywhere. I brought back a case for a backyard barbecue. And yes, Sean is invited if his mother says it's okay."

"I 'm gonna call her," Sean said, and with Billy close on his heals, he ran into the house, nearly barreling into Stephanie at the door.

"What's the fuss?" Stephanie asked.

"Lobster dinner," Dan said. "I've got plenty; you up for it?"

"Uh… It sounds great, but—"

"You have other plans," Dan chimed in, a sarcastic edge in his voice. "Surprise, surprise."

Stephanie rolled her eyes and sighed. "I'm done," she said to Sara, but Gil suspected those words were equally meant for Dan.

When Stephanie left, Dan watched her go, then said to Gil and Sara, "So the two of you interested?"

"Count me in," Sara said.

"Gil?"

"One condition. You let me pay for the lobster. I can't expect the two of you to feed me for the rest of the summer."

"Nonsense," Dan said. "What are you going to do? Eat out every night?"

Sara looked at him. "You know," she said, "you could use the kitchen if you want."

"I thought you didn't like guests in your kitchen."

She smiled. "Well, I can make an exception for a long-term stay."

Gil liked the idea, not only because he didn't particularly look forward to eating out all the time, but because it would give him another opportunity to get close to her. "Okay," he said, "I'd like that."

"Settled, then," Dan said. "But tonight, it's my treat."

THE SUN WAS quickly disappearing behind the horizon when Dan came out of the house. He'd gone in to answer the phone and returned with the bottle of cognac and three glasses.

"That was Billy. He's spending the night at Sean's."

"Did they run into that guy?" Sara asked.

He shrugged. "Didn't mention it."

Sara looked at Gil, her eyes mirroring his concern.

Dan had steamed the lobster in a large stock pot over the gas grill in his back yard, served them at the picnic table on disposable plates, and they'd washed them down with a chilled Riesling they drank from crystal glasses. The lobsters were a nice size, but not too big, so with a side of garlic butter and lemon, they had consumed two each. The boys had gone for a third, but most of it had remained on their plates. After declaring himself full, Billy had asked his father if he and Sean could take off.

"Take off where?"

"To the wharf. We won't be long."

"I want you home before dark."

Gil could feel the excitement nipping at the boys' heels. Their motive for going to the wharf was obvious to him, but Dan appeared oblivious. He figured that two very dry vodka martinis and several glasses of wine would do that to a man.

"Billy…if you see that guy, don't approach him," Gil cautioned.

The boys exchanged a look. "We won't," Billy murmured.

"Gil's right, kiddo," Sara added. "If he did steal Sean's bike and you let on that you know, it could get ugly. You're better off staying away from him. You can always replace a bike, but we can't replace that handsome mug of yours."

Dan chuckled. "Not without very expensive plastic surgery, anyway."

After a promise to be careful, the boys had left.

Sara and Gil had cleared the table, disposing of the paper plates in the trash bin at the back of the storage shed while Dan topped off their wine glasses, which they'd barely touched. He, on the other hand, had polished off the second bottle.

Watching his friend uncork the Cognac, now, Gil's concern over Dan's drinking grew. He covered his own glass with his hand. "None for me, thanks."

Sara did the same.

"C'mon you guys. Just a little to loosen up."

"I'm loose enough," Sara said. "Besides, getting up at the crack of dawn to get breakfast for ten people is much less fun with a hangover."

"Party poopers." Dan poured himself a generous portion and recapped the bottle.

"Not everyone needs alcohol to enjoy themselves," Gil remarked smoothly.

Dan cut him a look. "True. But some of us could use a little buzz once in a while if only to drop our inhibitions. Let's take you, for example—"

"Let's not."

"—Have you ever dropped that iron control of yours and just gone for it?"

"I've had my moments."

"Really?" Gil saw Dan's eyes flick over to Sara and he tensed. "I find that hard to believe. Why else would you still be pining for—"

"Dan!"

Wincing, he said, "Sorry, buddy," and tipped his glass to his lips as Gil's warning hung in the silence.

Gil casually glanced at Sara who was eyeing Dan speculatively. And then, she rose to her feet.

"Well, guys, I'm going to call it a night."

"It's barely eight-thirty," Dan whined.

"Yeah, well, you two seem to have a thing going on here that doesn't concern me."

"That's where you're wrong. It very much—"

"Okay," Gil chimed in, having had enough of Dan's runaway mouth. He stood up, and to Sara said, "Go ahead. I won't be long."

"Take your time." Sara dropped a kiss on Dan's cheek. "Goodnight, and thanks for dinner."

Dan grinned. "'Night, gorgeous," he said and they both watched her leave through the back gate.

As soon as Gil deemed Sara out of earshot, he glared at Dan. "What's the matter with you?"

"Aw…come on, Gil. Do n't get all jealous on me."

"Jealous? Jealousy has nothing to do with this."

"Are you sure about that? Pay attention and learn, Gilbert. Aren't you supposed to be good at that?"

"What's gotten into you?"

"Maybe if you learned to loosen up a bit, Sara wouldn't still be running away from you."

"I don't see Stephanie chomping at the bit to spend time with you, yet you're pretty much loose twenty-four seven."

Previously full of mischief, Dan's gaze suddenly burned with something so painfully bright that remorse kicked at Gil's gut. Dan had an excuse for being a jerk. Gil didn't. But what Dan said had grabbed him by the throat. Maybe hit a little too close to home. Was it only a week ago that he wished he hadn't closed himself off to the people he cared about? The booze had turned Dan into an asshole, but at least he was an honest asshole.

"Look, Dan, I don't know what's going on between you and Stephanie, or why you seem hell bent on numbing yourself with booze, and I know you're in no condition to see this now, but there are more problems than solutions in the bottle." After a reflective pause, during which Dan sneered at him, Gil added, "I hardly recognize you tonight. This isn't who you are, Dan. We wouldn't be friends if it were. So, think about that, will you, before you alienate everyone who cares about you."

"Finished with the sermon, Father Grissom?"

Gil shook his head, exasperated. He wasn't getting through to him and probably wouldn't while he was drunk. Getting to his feet, he said, "Okay. Go sleep this off. I'm done."

"Aye, aye, Sir!"

_And stop acting like a child._ Gil wisely kept that thought to himself. Instead, he wished him goodnight and started to leave.

"Carol didn't love me anymore." He looked up and gave an unaffected shrug, then swallowed the rest of his drink and pushed the glass away. "The reason she went to New York with my parents that weekend was to get away from me. To think, she said."

Gil slumped back into his chair.

"I neglected her, our marriage, Billy. All I thought about was making a name for myself. The next promotion. The next newspaper article that sang my praises. The times I slept at the hospital, even when I could have come home." He shook his head. "Carol used to joke that the hospital was my wife and she was the mistress. Except that she wasn't joking. She was sending me a message, but I was too preoccupied with my career to get it. Actually, I think I did get it, but it was easier to pretend I didn't and laugh it off."

He dropped his head and quickly raked his fingers through his hair. Then, he uncorked the bottle once again, and Gil frowned but decided he'd already beat that horse to death. Anyway, Dan was talking, and Gil knew that was much more important than the headache he'd have in the morning.

After Dan had poured himself another generous drink only to down half of it in one gulp, Gil said, "She may have been lonely, Dan, but that doesn't mean she didn't love you."

"Ah! Well, guess what? That's exactly what she said. Her exact words were, 'I need to figure out if I can still love you.'"

Ouch. "I'm sorry."

"The bitch of it is, Gil, if I had been a better husband to her, she would have come to the Cape with me instead of going to New York, and she'd still be alive."

And there it was, not the survivor's guilt Gil had often suspected drove Dan, but guilt in its purest form, and much more difficult to overcome. "Accidents happen, Dan. They're random. You can't blame yourself. You weren't behind the wheel of the car that hit them."

"No, but I'm the one who put her in that car," he said, and Gil sighed, out of pop psychology platitudes, which wouldn't help him anyway. "You know, I keep telling myself that she probably would have gone even if she'd been Carol Brady. Carol loved New York. But I still feel like crap."

"Drinking won't make you feel better. It may even ruin your life, and Billy's if you're not careful."

"You think I drink to feel better? Maybe I did at first, but now it's just a habit."

"All the more reason to stop."

"Yeah…maybe I'll do that. Tomorrow," he added, giving Gil a quick smile. "You know, we're not so different you and me. We both chose work over a woman. Only difference, you have a second chance to make it right, and I can't stand watching you piss it away. Would telling her how you feel be the worst thing you've ever done?"

"I wish I hadn't told you."

"As if you had to."

Gil sighed. "Well, you're probably right about her still running away from me. I don't think she'd be receptive to big declarations of love right now."

"She was six years ago?"

"I think so." Gil motioned to one of the empty glasses. "Maybe I'll have that drink after all."

AN HOUR LATER, Gil was debating whether to go for a walk or go back to his room to work. He'd left Dan's through the back gate, and the clear night sky and gentle lap of waves along the beach beckoned him. Plus, he needed to think about how to resolve his situation with Sara. As under the influence as Dan had been, he had said some things that struck a nerve, and as the evening wore on, Gil surprised himself by opening up a bit more to him about his past relationship with Sara.

He had also turned to the bottle to numb his pain and loneliness after she left Las Vegas. Adjusting to looking at another face on his right during case briefings, and to not knowing where Sara was or whether he'd ever see her again, had not been easy. But eventually, through sheer force of will, he had pulled himself together and gone on with his life.

Eight months to the day after Sara left town, he slept with another woman. He didn't even know her. She was an ADA, new in town, one of many beautiful women who crossed his path almost daily in the course of his job. And although he had bedded her, he didn't really remember much about her. She had red hair, that he remembered, and unusually long eyelashes framing large green eyes. Or maybe they were blue. The lashes he remembered because the first time she batted them at him, he came close to looking over his shoulder to see who was standing behind him. And when she sought him out a few days later after his court testimony and suggested a drink, he thought, why not? He hadn't had a drink in two months. He hadn't had a woman look at him that way a lot longer than that, and as most lonely, desperate men stories went, three scotches later, he was in her bed screwing her. The post-coital bliss lasted about as long as he had, which could be counted in seconds, and he couldn't even bring himself to care about his poor performance.

After that emasculating experience—because he doubted it was normal for a man to feel shame after having sex with a beautiful woman—he didn't have sex again for over two years. Until Anita came along. She wasn't as beautiful as the ADA whose name he couldn't even remember now, but she had an attractive quality about her. She was a psychic whose help Brass had reluctantly accepted in the case of a missing nine year old girl. In fact, Brass hadn't welcomed her in their fold at all at first. His instinct had been to investigate Anita. But Gil was more open-minded and he valued her input. Once cleared, it was Gil who worked closely with her. He was impressed and a little in awe of her powers of perception. Plus, she had a nice smile and an uncanny ability to read his mind, which she did quite regularly in the course of their investigation, several meetings over dinner, some more casual than others. It took two months, but they did find the girl's body buried in a shallow grave in the forest near Lake Mead. Anita had led them to her.

There really wasn't any reason to keep in touch with her after that, but they had built a rapport that Gil was reluctant to let go. He enjoyed her company. Two weeks later, he found the courage to call her and she agreed to a date, the first of four which eventually led to her bed. With her, he'd been so sure he could relive the magic he'd experienced with Sara. But it hadn't happened and it had made him feel sad, and remorseful, but Anita had taken it in stride. "Your heart belongs to someone else," she'd told him. "I've known that since the first time we had dinner together." Gil didn't deny it, but he asked her why, knowing that, she had slept with him, and she laughed, said something unexpected, and at the same time, key to his celibacy ever since. She said, "Because I wanted to. I have powers, Gil, and most people don't understand them. You did. Besides, I'm human and you're a very attractive man and I was horny. But this woman you love, she's out there, and your paths will cross again some day."

Perhaps she had given him hope. Gil only knew that from that day on, he had looked for Sara everywhere he went.

Shaking his memories of Anita, he looked at the sky. It was still early, but with all that had happened since coming back from Boston yesterday, he had neglected to contact his agent as promised. If he wasn't careful, he'd lose his momentum on the book and miss his deadline. On the other hand, as important as the book was, he would gladly push off the deadline if it meant spending more time with Sara. He'd wasted six years of his life regretting choosing his career over her, and Dan was right, this was his second chance, and he wasn't about to let anything get in the way.

It was her voice coming from her back yard that made him forego a walk. Darkness had fallen, turning her colorful garden into various shades of deep gray, except at the patio, where bright halogen lights sparkled. Sara was sitting at the table with someone, a man he didn't recognize until he was almost upon them. And then his step faltered.

What the hell was _he_ doing there?

TBC


	11. Chameleon

A/N: I can't apologize for another long delay between chapters, because an apology suggests that I did something very wrong and won't do it again (promise :-) when I can make no such promise. The reality is that I have very little time to write and am doing the best I can to finish this story. I do, however, thank all of you who continue to be patient and send me notes of encouragement. All I can say about the next chapter is that it will be out as soon as humanly possible.

Thank you to Joan for her valuable insight into this chapter, and to Jo who betas almost everything I write.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

The patio lamps behind Patrick Armstrong were casting his face in shadows, yet Gil knew the moment the man spotted him. His eyes shifted over Sara's shoulder, strained in the darkness, then narrowed to cool slits of ice. However, it was a charming smile he directed at Sara when he said, "Well, well. We have company."

Sara turned in her seat. "Hey. You're back. Dan okay?"

"He will be."

Gil stepped up onto the patio and nodded at Armstrong. "Moved up your vacation?"

"An impromptu visit," he said. "I couldn't let another day go by without a little celebration."

"Celebration?"

"Of Sara's success, of course."

"Of course," Gil said in an indulgent tone meant to let Armstrong know he wasn't fooling anyone. Well, perhaps he was fooling Sara. It was impossible to tell. They looked a little too cozy in their cocoon of light with the cheerful chirp of crickets and the soothing lap of waves as background music. There was even the cry of a whip-poor-will joining in the melody.

No melody, however, was as soothing as the sound of Sara's voice when she said, "I've got coffee percolating if you'd like to join us."

She got to her feet and Gil looked at her for a moment, looking for what, he wasn't sure. A sign that she would rather he not leave her alone with Armstrong? Perhaps. But that was more than likely wishful thinking. What was more believable was that she was simply being a good hostess. As always.

The better gauge of his welcome came from Armstrong himself. Now that Sara had her back to him, he didn't bother hiding his displeasure. Gil hadn't expected him to echo Sara's invitation, of course, but he was unprepared for the predatory snarl on the man's face. It was daring him to accept, and because of that, Gil did.

He looked at Sara and tipped his head in the general direction of the kitchen. "I'll give you a hand," he said, and felt Armstrong's glare like pinpricks at the nape of his neck as he followed her inside.

"I didn't think you had any vacancy."

Sara glanced back at him. "I don't." In the kitchen, she got a serving tray from a lower cupboard, set three mugs on it, and filled them with coffee.

"It's a long drive for a quick visit."

"Oh, he's not going back tonight. He's—"

A soft knock and an even softer voice interrupted what she'd been about to say. "Ms. Sidle?" Standing in the doorway was a woman with gray-blue hair, the color of the large roses in her sundress. It gave her a monochromatic look. "Sorry to interrupt…"

Sara smiled. "You're not. I'll be right with you."

"Thank you," the woman said easing the door shut behind her.

"Would you mind taking the coffee out and keeping Patrick company while I take care of Mrs. Sofer?"

Of course he didn't mind. At least that's what he told Sara. In truth, the last person he wanted to be alone with was the unpleasant Patrick Armstrong. He was already steeling himself for it as Sara left the kitchen. The creamer was easy to find in the refrigerator, but he sighed when he just as quickly found the sugar dish tucked into a corner on the counter. So much for delaying the inevitable, he mused as he carried the tray outside.

Armstrong wasn't there.

Gil searched the darkness and finally spotted him at the pond, which so happened to be under the open kitchen window where he could have easily eavesdropped on his conversation with Sara. Well, well… His haughtiness wasn't above a little snooping. It almost made Gil like him a little.

Almost.

He cleared his throat and Armstrong whirled.

"Are the fish all tucked in for the night?"

Armstrong shot him a droll look, and then ambled back to the table. As he pulled a chair, his eyes flicked down to the tray Gil was carrying. "I didn't realize Sara puts her guests to work."

"She doesn't," Gil replied as he reluctantly sat across from Armstrong.

"Aw, Grissom, you can give up the pretense. I know where you sleep at night and as comfortable as I'm sure the Eagle's Nest Suite is, it doesn't compare to the comfort of Sara's bed."

Refusing to rise to Armstrong's bait—although it was difficult to ignore the shot of adrenaline to his vital organs at the possibility that this man was speaking from experience—Gil removed the items to the table one by one and set the tray aside. Then, he deliberately looked at Armstrong like a cat that had already lapped all the cream and slid the sugar dish across the table. "Sugar?"

Armstrong's eyes glittered. "I know what you want, Grissom, but don't for a minute delude yourself into thinking that I'll allow you to poach on my property."

"Your _property_? Is that what Sara is to you? A possession?"

"You're deliberately misinterpreting. Of course, I used "property" in the figurative sense. Although," Armstrong paused to add sugar to his coffee, "it wasn't that long ago that a woman was considered her husband's property. Surely, you remember the days, Grissom. You're what? Fifty?"

Gil wasn't about to correct him. He deliberately raised his mug to his lips and sipped. "Good coffee."

Armstrong gave his head a shake. "Regardless, there's something to be said for '_love, cherish, and obey_'. The world was a much better place when women understood and accepted their role in marriage."

Gil carefully set his cup down. "For whom, do you think?"

"For everyone, women included. By God's design, women are nurturers, Grissom. And as much as the feminist movement brainwashed them into denying their true nature, all their mumbo-jumbo did was confuse them. Look deeper, what do you see?"

"Women who'd rather live in servitude to men?"

Armstrong smirked. "Strong shoulders," he said, "someone to shelter them from life's difficulties."

"And you think Sara is this woman?"

"I hope you were more observant as a criminalist. Isn't the evidence everything to you people?"

"You're right. I'm obviously missing something, so enlighten me, would you? What makes you think that Sara needs a man to take care of her when all you have to do is take one look at this place to know that she's doing quite well on her own?"

Armstrong slowly shook his head and sighed. "I believe you take pleasure in misunderstanding me. I didn't say that all women are incapable of looking after themselves, only that it's not what they want. Sara is doing a remarkable job of surviving using skills that come naturally to her. She's made a home for weary travelers and happily caters to them. She's not hiding from her true nature as so many women do these days. That's what I love about her."

Laughter rumbled in Gil's chest before he could stop it. He'd downplayed his dislike of Armstrong yesterday as nothing more than a natural reaction to a rival. The threat was gone, and his dislike justified. Give a man a rope…

"You find my feelings amusing?"

"Not at all. In fact, there's not much I find amusing about your attitude toward women in general and Sara in particular."

Armstrong looked down his nose at him. "Ah. A feminist, I see…"

"I don't put labels on common sense."

The air suddenly turned chilly. Or chillier. Up 'till then, Armstrong had at least smoothed the edges of his condescension and arrogance with practiced charm. But it was naked animosity burning in his eyes now, potent enough to put Gil on alert.

"I don't know who you think you are, Grissom. But if you think your holier-than-thou attitude is going to intimidate me, you have no idea who you're dealing with."

"I'm getting a pretty clear picture."

"You new-age men…" Armstrong continued as though Gil hadn't spoken. "You're part of the problem, not the solution, you know that? And know what else? Women respond to real men. Bleeding-heart liberals such as yourself don't hold their attention for long, which is probably why you're still snapping at her heels for attention when all you're getting for your efforts is a nice little pat on the head as she sends you up to your room."

This was it. In his thirty years as a criminalist dealing with the worst society had to offer, even having his masculinity called into question by some macho cops on occasion, Gil's control had never been so tested. What surprised him most, however, was his desire to punch something, preferably Armstrong's lofty nose. Not combative by nature, the surge of testosterone that made it difficult to ignore Armstrong's provocation was a new sensation. So, what was it about this guy that made him want to take the gloves off?

He took a deep breath, scolding his body to relax, and then swallowed the rest of his coffee, which had the desired effect of giving his heartbeat time to settle. He would not strike with his fists, not when he had a much more lethal weapon at his disposal. Armstrong, he suspected, was a worthy intellectual opponent, but Gil had an advantage. The man had revealed his weakness.

He slowly put his cup down and gave him a leveled look. "Aren't you wondering where she is?"

"Who? Sara?"

"It's strange that you didn't ask."

"I assumed she was taking care of a guest."

"Assumed? Or heard when you were listening at the window?"

Armstrong laughed. "Now why would I do that?"

"Well… perhaps because you're not as confident in your relationship with her as you'd like me to believe."

Armstrong sniffed haughtily. "Remember you said that when you're serving me coffee again in the morning. Has she fitted you for an apron yet?"

"Very funny, but not as amusing as your so-called feelings for Sara. You say you love her, yet you don't know the first thing about her. If you did, you wouldn't dare refer to her as your property." When Armstrong opened his mouth to speak, Gil lifted a hand. "I'm not finished," he said. "For a man who's been implying for the last," he broke off, made a show of looking at his watch, and was surprised that so little time had elapsed, "ten minutes that you and Sara are lovers, you appear overly concerned about my sleeping arrangements. _Thou doth protest too much, methinks_ comes to mind." The glare Armstrong tossed his way marked the beginning of Gil's true enjoyment in the man's company. "It's from Hamlet," he added smoothly, and when Armstrong bared his teeth and started to get up, Gil tensed, still, uncharacteristically thought, _'Go ahead. Make my day,'_ and was almost disappointed when Sara chose that moment to join them.

Armstrong flopped back into his chair and turned a charming smile up at her. A real chameleon. "I was beginning to think you'd abandoned me."

"Sorry guys, this took longer than expected." Sara sat down and reached for the cup Gil handed her, although the coffee would be lukewarm by now. "Thanks."

"Everything okay?"

"Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Sofer have to leave earlier than planned. They asked if I'd mind serving them an early breakfast." Looking at Patrick, she said, "And, the Cape Inn has a room available. I reserved it for you." To Gil, she said, "Patrick expected the new suite to be available."

"That's what I thought." Gil bit back a self-satisfied grin. Instead, he got to his feet. "You two probably have business to discuss, so I'll leave you to it." To Sara he said, "Need help in the morning?"

Sara smiled up at him. "No. They asked for a light breakfast, no big deal. It won't throw me off schedule. But thanks for asking."

Gil returned her smile, and then politely nodded at Armstrong. "I hope your bed at the Cape Inn is as comfortable as the ones here."

It was smug of him. He knew it, but he couldn't help himself. After being subjected to the man's moronic views about women and being goaded with his imagined place in Sara's life, he figured he deserved it. But the look Armstrong gave him made him pause. There was something familiar and unsettling in his eyes, and Gil was trying to place it when Sara said, "Goodnight, Gris."

Gil made himself leave despite an uneasy feeling that he should stay. He entered his room in the dark and went to the open window. Sara and Armstrong were still on the patio, chatting quietly, fortunately not loud enough that he could hear their conversation. Gil left the window and moved about the room, turning on some lamps, restless. He detested Armstrong, no question, and not because he was pursuing Sara, although Gil would be lying if he said that hadn't been at the forefront of his initial dislike of the man. Now, it was something more disturbing that fed his animosity. Armstrong was a hypocrite. Deceitful. Gil was sure he'd never given Sara a hint of his condescension toward women, or he wouldn't be here.

Gil wondered how long it would take him to reveal his true persona. He considered warning Sara, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. Sara was a smart woman; she'd figure it out soon enough. She probably wouldn't appreciate his interference anyway. _Probably wouldn't believe me._ That thought rankled. He'd let Armstrong hang himself. A man like him couldn't hide his true nature indefinitely.

Gil went to his desk and turned on the computer. There was another email from Catherine, which he ignored for the moment. Gut instinct made him open his browser and Google Patrick Armstrong.

When he got 20,000 hits on the name, he sighed and refined his search. Eighty-four hits were more manageable, but after going through thirty of them, he lost patience and limited his search to photos. Armstrong's face came up on the first results page. Gil followed the link to a newspaper article. _'Local teacher arrested for spousal abuse.'_ He read, without surprise, that four years ago, an anonymous call had tipped police to a disturbance at the home of Patrick and Lena Armstrong. Mrs. Armstrong had been brutally beaten and taken to hospital for treatment. Their two children were placed in Child Services custody until a family member could be contacted.

Further searches revealed that Armstrong had pled no contest to the charge, and was fined 500 and sentenced to 30 days in prison. Since school had been out for the summer, the sentence had not interfered with his classes.

Shaking his head, Gil continued his search, although he had already confirmed what he had quickly suspected of Armstrong. After Sara had told him of the abusive household she had lived in as a child, Gil had read extensively on the abuser's psyche. On a gut level he had recognized the classic signs of a controlling personality in Armstrong, a man who had developed an idealistic view of a woman, believing that he had finally found the one who would fulfill his self-focused fantasies. All Armstrong saw in Sara was a woman who catered to people. A woman who embraced her giving nature and didn't expect anything for herself. He probably had her settled in his house, subservient to him and his children.

Gil was so immersed in his thoughts and the articles that kept popping up on Armstrong, all of them related to the same altercation, that he didn't immediately notice that the voices below were getting louder until he heard Sara say very succinctly, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What is wrong with me?" Armstrong shouted back.

His senses on full alert, Gil pushed out of his chair and rushed to the window. Down on the patio, Sara was trying to break free of Armstrong's strong grip on her upper arms.

"Let go of me!"

Gil didn't wait to witness more. He took the stairs two at a time and sprinted down the hall, past a young couple who had evidently seen or heard the same thing he did and came out of their room to investigate.

"What's going on?" the young woman called after him.

"Stay in your room," Gil ordered without stopping, without thinking that he might need reinforcement. Adrenaline pushed him forward, made his knees forget that they couldn't handle this pace anymore as he took the last flight of stairs down to the main floor. His heart was pounding when he reached the patio and flung open the door just as Armstrong delivered a backhanded slap across Sara's face.

"Get away from her!" His shout startled Armstrong and gave Gil the upper hand. He charged and tackled him, pushed him off the patio. Armstrong fell back, lost his footing and landed on his ass on the lawn. Catching his breath, Gil turned to Sara. "Are you okay?"

She nodded faintly, her eyes wide with shock, her hand cupping her cheek. Then her gaze shifted to Armstrong and Gil looked over his shoulder as the bastard climbed to his feet and straightened his shirt.

Rage was shooting out of his eyes as he stepped back up onto the patio and came at him. Gil's hands instinctively curled into fists, but Armstrong wasn't coming at him with his fists, but rather an index finger pointed at his face. "This is none of your business, you fucking pain in the ass."

"Wrong. And, you have a choice, Armstrong. Either you quietly leave this house right now, or I'll make sure you spend another few months behind bars for assaulting a woman."

Armstrong froze, but quickly snapped out of it. Gil had caught the flash of surprise in his gaze, but his voice, when he spoke, was arrogant as ever. "Well, well. Good job, master sleuth. You found the one black mark on my record. But you of all people should know that you can't believe everything you read. What all those bleeding heart liberals such as yourself didn't report was how she asked for it. The woman never listened, not even when it was for her own good. A man can only take so much provocation before he snaps. And he gets punished for it, as though he weren't entitled to self-defense."

"Self-defense?" Up until then Sara had remained silent. From shock, Gil guessed. But now she was seething. He could feel her anger building, rolling off her, and he instinctively took a step toward her. "Like you were defending yourself against me just now?"

"Shut up, you ungrateful bitch."

And all Gil heard after that was the sound of his fist connecting with Armstrong's jaw. The man staggered back against the table, and Gil lunged, grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "Get the hell out," he said between clenched teeth before flinging him toward the patio door.

Armstrong staggered, but soon regained his footing. He wiped his mouth and looked at Sara. "You…women don't know what's good for you. It's because of me you're fifteen thousand richer today. And you're not even that good. You'll never find another man who's going to go the distance for you the way I did."

"When did I give you the impression that I needed your help? You begged me to do this show." Fearless, Sara stepped forward, sidestepping Gil's protective hand to stand toe-to-toe with Armstrong. "I know guys like you, Patrick. I grew up with one. He constantly demeaned and threatened my mother, and when that wasn't enough to make him feel like a man anymore, he beat her. But in the end, she beat him. She killed him. I'll give you another choice, Patrick. You can stick around and find out if I'm my mother's daughter, or you can leave and never come near me again."

For a moment, Armstrong looked as if he would strike her again, but then seemed to catch himself. Instead, he cracked an arrogant smile and turned to Gil. "That's what you want? She's all yours," he said. "But I'd watch my back if I were you."

"The door's behind yours. Use it."

With a final sneer at both of them, Armstrong finally left.

Gil breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Sara. "Honey, are you okay?" He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, but Sara swiftly tipped her head sideways, avoiding his touch.

"Don't call me that," she snapped. "And don't you dare touch me."

Gil sucked in a breath, his hand falling to his side. With a final, cold glance directed at him, Sara marched into the house.

TBC

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A/N: Sorry to leave this story on another cliffhanger, especially since I'm unlikely to post the next chapter for a while. I will try to make up for the potentially long wait with some terrific...romance? All I can say is that some of it is already written, and I'm looking forward to writing the rest. BTW, someone asked me how many chapters were left in this story. I can't give an exact number, but it shouldn't be more than three.


	12. Confessions

_See disclaimer in Chapter 1. Chapter 12, Confessions. Vplasgirl_

* * *

**Chapter 12 - Confessions**

Sara's unexpected anger and withdrawal staggered Gil. Astonished, he stared after her as she stormed into the house, wondering what sin _he_ had committed this time. Himself rarely quick to anger, it was nevertheless what propelled him inside after her, to the kitchen where he found her dumping a tray of ice cubes on a tea towel. Gil watched as she twisted the towel around her fist and pressed it to her cheek. Her movements were brisk, her jaw was clenched, her nostrils were flaring, and she seemed oblivious to his presence just inside the door.

Either that or she was ignoring him.

Her reaction to being assaulted was understandable, to be expected even, but not to his simple offer of comfort. She recoiled from him as though he were the sort of man who would lay a hand on a woman in anger.

She knew better.

Gil expelled a breath, a deep sigh filled with bemusement, and she looked up, her eyes for a moment naked, betraying a deep sorrow, deeper than he had expected. Overwhelming tenderness suddenly expanded his chest until he could barely breathe. Without hesitation, he crossed the room to her. "Sara—"

"Don't," she said, taking a step back.

"I just want to help, honey."

"I don't need your help. And I told you not to call me that."

His teeth clenched, but he forced himself to remain calm. Unthreatening. In a low voice, he said, "Okay. I don't know how to make this better, but I would never hurt you, you have to know that much."

"Do I?" A storm brewed in her eyes. "You think you're better than men like Patrick? You think I've forgotten how you used to play me?"

"Excuse me?"

"For years you used my little crush on you to control me. Look at me, Sara. Flatter my ego, Sara. But don't dare get too close, right Grissom? Don't ever expect anything back."

"That's not—"

"You were so afraid to lose all that adoration that you tried to stop me from leaving that last night in Vegas, didn't you? I wondered how far you'd go to make me stay. I didn't have to wonder long."

"That's what you think? What you've been thinking all this time?"

"The only downside to taking off before you woke up was that I couldn't see your face when you realized I didn't give a damn about you anymore."

Gil flinched and an eerie silence descended between them. They stared at each other through the calm after the storm. It was difficult to remember that Sara's outburst was motivated by adrenaline and her anger towards Armstrong when her words had just ripped open an old, but still very tender wound, a hurt that time had not managed to completely soothe. At least everything was clearer now. Why she left all those years ago, ignored his emails, made herself unreachable.

Finally, Gil could see beyond the bruised look around Sara's eyes and the evidence of Armstrong's angry hand swelling on her cheek, to the ravages of careless people underneath the surface of the pretty face and beautiful smile she presented to the world. And he recognized his own hand in her devastation.

Sara was right. Not about that last night in Vegas, at least not entirely, but about everything else. He had encouraged her infatuation for years knowing that he wouldn't reciprocate. He hadn't seen a way to make a serious relationship co-exist with the demands of the career that had chosen him. He hadn't even tried until it was much too late, choosing instead to sacrifice a life with her to focus on his vocation, and hurting them both in the process.

Hurting her.

"Sara…" He reached for her and she jerked back so violently that the makeshift icepack flew from her hand and the ice cubes went scattering across the floor. The noise seemed to jolt her, and she looked up, her eyes growing wide, her expression turning to horror.

"Oh God." Sara covered her mouth with her fist and her eyes filled with tears. And then, on a sob, she suddenly pushed past him and fled to her room.

XXXXX

GIL FOUND HER sitting in the faint light of her private patio. A more cautious man would have turned tail and hidden until she had cooled off. But this was Sara, and she was hurting, and he was done protecting himself from her. He had a lot of amends to make and he would start by not denying her his love anymore. Not even if she didn't want or need it.

It was that love that made him step outside where she was seated, curled up in a ball, her face hidden in her arms resting on her knees.

Gil knew the moment she sensed him there. Her back stiffened and she surreptitiously dried her cheeks with the back of her hand. He gave her a moment to compose herself before quietly approaching her.

From beneath her thick lashes, Sara raised her eyes to look at him, her gaze barely touching his before skittering away. Her lips curled into a rueful smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said in there."

"It's okay," Gil replied. "I, uh…" He cleared his throat and drew her attention to the icepack he had put back together, "…thought you might need this."

"Thank you," she said, but instead of taking it from him, she scooted over, making room for him on the chaise.

Gil sat down and pressed the cold compress to her cheek, and then drew back swiftly when she flinched. "Sorry."

Sara shook her head, covered his hand with hers and brought the pack back to her cheek; with her hand still over his, she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. Gil studied her face, took in the weariness around her eyes, the slack, resigned look around her lips. Earlier, he had wanted to murder the man who had done this to her. But now, he was humbled by the painful reminder of his own behavior towards her in the past.

He cradled her good cheek in his free hand and gently stroked the skin over her cheekbone with his thumb. Sara slowly opened her eyes, her gaze catching his, and the sensation of being barely able to breathe was back.

"I should have recognized the signs," she said.

"Well, men like Armstrong can be very charming."

"You knew."

"He showed me his Jekyll."

To Gil's delight, her eyes sparked with a flash of humor.

"He was jealous of you, you know."

"Hmm. We had that in common," he heard himself say, shocked by his candor. Sara's eyes widened and he quickly steered the conversation in a more comfortable direction. "I can't help feeling responsible for what he did to you. I provoked him earlier—"

"Don't Gil. Anything could have set him off, if not tonight, then tomorrow or next week. I'm glad you were here when it happened. Thank you."

The urge to kiss her then was overwhelming. In fact, his needs ran much deeper than a simple kiss, but he intuitively held them back. And then, Sara started speaking again, distracting him from everything but what she needed most from him at the moment: a friend.

"I always knew when my dad and mom were about to go at it. She was sick and unpredictable, but he… he was just nasty. I was so attuned to his moods that most of the time I knew before it happened that it was going to be one of those nights. He'd come home in a foul temper and wait for an excuse to start picking on her. The littlest thing would set him off." Sara sighed. "I wouldn't stick around for it," she said with a hint of regret in her voice suggesting residual feelings of shame. "I'd go for a long walk on the beach, or lock myself in my room. It was too awful to watch…but I always saw the results. The bruises, the bleeding; my mom cried a lot. And he'd be apologizing, cuddling her, pretending like he hadn't been a monster, and he'd always blame her for setting him off." Sara gave Gil a pointed look. "Your typical abuser. The last time it happened, the night she—killed him—I was distracted, I guess, and didn't pick up on his mood. I got in the way and he slapped me so hard that he cut my lip open. That was it for my mom. She became somebody I'd never seen before. Somebody mad enough and strong enough to stop him." Sara visibly shuddered. "You know the rest of the story."

Gil nodded and said nothing. Nothing he could say would ever make these memories less painful for her, or erase the marks of that childhood, which still lurked in the corners of her lovely face.

Sara gently removed his hand and the icepack from her cheek. "I'm cold," she said. "I think I'll turn in."

It was a warm, balmy July evening. Gil knew that her shivers were a reaction to the night's traumatic events, and he wished he could wrap her in his arms, keep her warm and safe. More than anything, he wished her to know that she was safe with him. It was said that actions spoke louder than words; well, he had a few weeks to prove to her that he would cherish her forever if she gave him another chance.

For now, he rose from the chaise and gave her a hand up. "You should take a nice hot bath before bed. I'll lock up and turn in myself."

Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. "You're a good man," she said in a tight voice. "I'm so sorry…you didn't deserve what I said."

"I deserved some of it." Sara looked at him curiously. "You were right about some things, though not about my reasons for coming to see you on your last night in Vegas. Well, not entirely. But I do realize that I hurt you, and that was not my intention."

"It's all water under the bridge now anyway."

"Is it?"

Sara sighed. "I don't know. It should be."

"What's the statute of limitations on apologies?"

"Six years, one month, and twenty-five days?"

Gil smiled. "Good, then I'm not too late." He turned her hand in his and laid the icepack in it. "If you need anything, you know where to find me."

Sara gave him a soft smile. "Thanks."

"Goodnight, my dear."

XXXXX

SARA DIDN'T KNOW why she hadn't told Gil that her private quarters didn't have the luxury of a bath. She had tucked a toilet, a pedestal sink and a shower into a very small space off her bedroom, and there hadn't been enough square footage for a tub. Not that she was fond of baths anyway when showers were much more efficient.

But tonight, she would have welcomed one.

Sara turned on the shower and undressed while waiting for the water to warm to the desired temperature. She dropped all her clothes in the hamper wedged between the toilet and the shower, and quickly reached for the soft terrycloth robe hanging on the back of the door.

Despite the steam that was now filling the tiny bathroom, she was still shivering. Shock, she mused as she wiped the steam off the mirror with her sleeve and leaned in to closely examine the swelling under her right eye. She would have a nasty bruise in the morning, one that would be difficult to explain to her guests.

A long time ago, Sara had promised herself that no man would ever lay a hand on her again. She had even prided herself in her ability to spot an abuser a mile away. So how could she miss the signs with Patrick? Gil hadn't.

Gil. As long as she lived, she would never forget the hurt look in his eyes when she served him a good helping of misplaced anger. With her sanity finally restored, she could admit that he was no more responsible for the pain she had suffered as a result of loving him all those years ago, than he was responsible for not being capable of loving her back. Until her last night in Vegas, Gil had never behaved in any way to encourage her feelings for him.

And by then, it had been too late anyway.

God, what he must think of her now. That she was a nutcase? The apple that hadn't fallen far enough from the tree? The feeling of shame that came over her as she recalled what she had said to him in the kitchen earlier was near unbearable. Somehow she had to make amends and the thought of him going to sleep thinking that she was insane lent urgency to the matter. Without thought for the consequences of her actions, or for that matter, her true motives, Sara turned off the shower, slipped into the soft-soled sandals she often wore around the house, and left her room.

It wasn't until she was standing at Gil's door in her robe that she realized how fortunate she was not to have run into anyone on the way up.

Gil opened the door. She didn't know what to make of his expression, only that she felt anything but unwelcome. He didn't look surprised to see her exactly—after all, who else would be knocking on his door at that time of night?—still, he seemed at a loss for words. Not an unsual condition for him.

"May I come in?"

"Sure," he said, talking a step back.

"I, um, don't have a bath. Not enough space for one in my room," Sara explained quickly. "My bathroom only has a shower."

"Oh." _Oh._ Gil closed the door and motioned her in.

"I happen to have a soaking tub," he said, his eyes level with her hips as he climbed the stairs behind her. "I hear it's quite comfortable."

Sara glanced back at him, smiling. "I heard the same thing."

By the time they reached the top of the stairs, Gil was questioning whether she really had come for a bath or if it was code for something else. Something he very much wanted. The answer, if he knew it, would dictate his next move. What he didn't want was to make the wrong assumption and end up looking like a fool.

Sara looked around the room, her eyes falling to the laptop on his desk. "I hope, uh… Is this okay? I mean if you're busy…"

Her uncertainty and the hesitation in her voice settled the question for Gil. It was usually better to err on the side of caution anyway. "No. It's fine," he said, and then added in jest, "Make yourself at home while I run your bath."

"I can do it," she said, but Gil was already at the bathroom door.

He glanced back at her. "I know, but let me."

In the bathroom, he turned on the faucets then took in the array of bath products and the three fat candles on a glass shelf that ran the full length of the tub. He had never really paid attention to them before, but now noticed that there were several fragrances ranging from light herbals to a more potent, Eucalyptus foam bath.

He uncapped several bottles and inhaled the scent before settling on jasmine. As he poured a capful of the liquid under the running water, he sensed Sara watching him, and looked up to find her leaning against the doorjamb, studying him with eyes so dark, yet gentle, that it made him catch his breath.

Softly, he asked, "Jasmine okay for you?"

She nodded.

"I've got a bottle of wine on the top shelf in the closet…if you want, it might help you relax."

"I'm fine," she said.

"Okay. It might help me relax."

Sara smiled at that and turned back into the room to fetch the wine.

As the bath filled with bubbles, Gil lit the three candles and spaced two of them on the shelf at either end of the tub. The third one, he placed on the vanity. Next, he dimmed the lights, so that when Sara returned with the wine, the room was bathed in candlelight.

"Nice," she said.

"Almost ready," he replied, turning off the faucets. He took the wine glasses from her and set them down on the edge of the tub, not missing the flicker of panic in her eyes as she glanced first, at the glasses, and then at him. "I'll be out of your hair soon," he said reassuringly as he laid a thick bath towel and facecloth next to the glasses. There was only one thing missing to achieve the mood he was aiming for. "Don't go anywhere," he told her. "I'll be right back."

There was a radio-CD player and several compact discs in his desk. He chose an album of soft instrumental music that Sara must have selected for this very purpose and quickly returned to the bathroom only to stop short, his heart landing a sharp kick in his chest, as his eyes fell on the peach robe in a heap on the floor. Sara was lying back in the tub, her eyes closed; her hair spread over the edge, making an arousing picture despite the fact that she was covered up to her neck in bubbles. They were no impediment to Gil's imagination.

He cleared his throat and Sara's eyes blinked open.

"I, uh, thought music would help you relax."

She gave him a lazy smile. "Thanks."

Gil's hands shook as he plugged in the CD player and added the disk. The soothing strings of a classical guitar were soon filling the room.

"I was doing really good," Sara said in tones so soft he wondered whether she had meant for him to hear. "Before you came here," she specified. "I was finally happy."

"My being here is making you unhappy?"

She gave her head a quick shake. "That's not what I mean. It's just, you make me...feel, and I'm not handling it very well."

"Feel what, Sara?" he asked softly.

"Just feel. After my brother died—"

"Your brother died?"

"Yes, in a motorcycle accident a couple of years ago. He was all the family I had left, and when he died, I think I decided I'd had enough emotional pain in my life, and for a long time, I was really okay not feeling anything anymore. And then you showed up and that changed. All these confusing feelings came back and—" Sara broke off abruptly. "Never mind. I'm still over talking around you."

Gil sat on the edge of the tub. "Sara—" She looked up at him. "I know what it's like to be filled with confusing, sometimes even unwanted feelings, and not know what to do about them. In my experience, keeping them to yourself doesn't make them go away."

"Would talking about them accomplish that?"

He smiled. "Probably not."

Sara looked at him quizzically, as though weighing something in her mind. "Get in the tub with me."

Gil was quiet for a long moment. "God, Sara. You have to be very sure about this, because I can't say no to you."

He waited for an answer, but what he got instead was a furtive glance and a silence that lasted long enough for him to understand that doubt still lurked in her heart. Picking up his wine glass, Gil rose to his feet. "Take your time and try to relax. I'll be waiting out there when you're ready," he added, before leaving her to ponder his deliberate double-entendre.

XXXXX

WHEN SARA CAME out of the bathroom less than five minutes later, Gil was stretched out on the bed. "That was fast," he said, sitting up abruptly.

Sara didn't say a thing. Her gaze locked with his and she took determined steps towards him, her hair damp, curling at the tips, her robe loosely wrapped around her waist, the soft lapels barely covering her breasts. Her purpose was clear.

Gil swallowed hard. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "Touch me."

No sooner were the words out of her mouth that his hands were cupping her waist and he was pulling her closer, between his legs. He parted her robe and ran his hand over the soft skin of her abdomen, then trailed wet kisses up to the valley between her breasts. Sara's sharp breath drew his gaze up to her face. There was no doubt in her eyes now, only the glitter of a passion that seemed to match his own. Gil reached up and buried a hand in her damp hair, guiding her face down to his. Her lips, her mouth, tasted like heaven. He licked, stroked, drank her sweetness until he needed more and he drew her down onto the bed and into his arms.

Her robe had slipped off her shoulders, revealing her soft curves, nearly everything that he had wanted for so long. His eyes drank their fill of her, his hand, which shook from barely controlled desire, touched where it wanted, and the sensation of her heated, slightly damp, breasts through his shirt sparked his passion, making it soar to heights such as it hadn't reached in a very long time.

At least not since that night so long ago in a dungy motel room in Vegas.

Gil ran his thumb over a hard nipple, sucked the other into his mouth, eliciting a satisfying moan from her, and her own hands became impatient, running over his shoulders, his back, trying to find a way into his shirt. Gil's mouth moved up, nipped at her neck, captured her lips, and Sara opened them for a deep, bone melting kiss.

"Sara—I want you so much," he said against her mouth. "Promise me you won't regret this in the morning."

"No regrets. I promise." Her beautiful smile, more so than her words, was all the encouragement Gil needed. He quickly removed her robe and let it fall over the side of the bed; his own clothes soon joined the heap on the floor, and then he helped himself to the body she so generously offered with hands that wanted to be everywhere at once, and a mouth that was greedy for the taste of all of her.

When he pressed inside her moments later, Sara cried out.

Gil cupped her face between his hands. "Are you okay?"

"Yes…yes, don't stop." To a body that had lain dormant for several years, Gil felt huge inside her. And so, so wonderful. Sara closed her eyes tightly against the wave of emotion that threatened to spoil the moment, and turned her mind to the sensations he was creating with his hard thrusts, his body moving in perfect rhythm with her own, as though they hadn't done this only once before; as though it hadn't been several years since they had been together this way.

Maybe they were made for each other, Sara thought fancifully, before abandoning herself to this man she had loved for so long and so deeply, that she had not been able to let another touch her.

XXXXX

MUCH, MUCH LATER, when they were lying face to face with nothing but a feather soft Indian cotton sheet covering their sated bodies, Gil confessed that he had always desired her. "And I was ashamed of it," he admitted. "You were so young when we met, so brilliant and full of life. I didn't delude myself into thinking that I could have a quick fling with you and be satisfied. Eventually, my desires turned to obsession and I couldn't look at you without hating how you made me feel. So I stopped looking, and tried staying away from you; and it worked for a while, but of course, it couldn't last." Gil brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen over Sara's cheek. He frowned at the slight discoloration there, and had to check a fresh wave of anger towards Armstrong before pressing on.

"When Nick was abducted, I needed you so much, Sara. I still feel shame for what I did to you that night. In my heart, I was still fighting you, and it never occurred to me until much later that my behavior was hurting you. I should have explained myself then, but instead I ignored it and again resolved to stay away from you. But then you were leaving and I realized what a colossal mistake I'd made."

Two vertical frown lines marked Sara's forehead between her brows; Sara's silent question mark, which Gil had always found adorable. It made him smile a little, despite the shadow of grief he could clearly see in her eyes. "You were right about that last night in Vegas. I went to beg you to stay, but not because I couldn't live without the ego boost. I didn't think I could live without you."

"Really?"

"I was in love with you, Sara, and I couldn't bear the thought of never seeing you again. And then you left and I had to bear it. Years passed, and eventually, I lost all hope of ever finding you, but I never really stopped looking."

"You mean…" Her eyes widened and filled with tears. "Oh my God! Oh my—" she dropped her head with a wretched sob, and Gil quickly gathered her into his arms.

"Hey, it's okay. I found you."

With her face buried in his chest, Sara shook her head. "You don't get it," she said, and pushed against him. He loosened his hold and she looked up, her eyes wet with tears. "All these years, I thought… I tried so hard to forget you and all along you were looking for me? You loved me!"

More tears escaped her eyes. He bent and pressed his mouth to them. "I couldn't forget you. I still can't."

Sara shook her head in wonder. "I don't know what to say."

"Say that you'll give me another chance. I'm here for a while. We can take it slowly, get to know each other again, see what happens."

A half chuckle, half sob burst out of her at his choice of words. Then, Sara slipped a hand under the sheet and gave his cock a gentle squeeze. It twitched in response. "I think I know what will happen."

"Well, the desire for sex is biological, therefore unavoidable."

"Unavoidable for a man, maybe, you romantic fool, you."

Gil cocked his head. "Are you saying that you have no such desires, because, my dear, after the hour we just spent together, I'd say the jig is up," he smugly told her.

Sara laughed. "I do want you, I can't deny it. But only you. That's a cross I had to bear for six long years."

"There's never been anyone else in all that time?"

"Nope. I know it must sound crazy, but I didn't want anyone else. I tried, but I just couldn't let anyone else touch me the way you had touched me—"

His lips smothered her words, and because it was his turn to not know what to say—he barely knew how to feel, except that his heart was beating one hell of a tattoo—Gil pulled her even tighter against him and kept kissing her until they were both out of breath.

When he pulled his head back, Sara's face was swimming before his eyes. His unshed tears were of happiness, for in that moment, Gil considered himself the luckiest man on earth. What's more, if Sara still loved him, and he was cautiously beginning to suspect that she did, he would be the _happiest_ man on earth.

It was a heady feeling, and he took a deep, steadying breath, but his voice was still hoarse when he made his final confession. "I love you, Sara."

XXXXX

IT WAS PAST MIDNIGHT when they fell asleep in each other's arms, smiling, and the next morning, when Gil woke up alone, he didn't panic. Still, he was extremely pleased to see that Sara had left a note on the bedside table. It was written on Summerhouse stationery. The note was brief and said everything he needed to know: _Breakfast (in bed) will be served at nine. I love you, too_. _S._

THE END

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_AUTHOR'S NOTE: My confession time. I had originally planned another two chapters to this story, three counting a short epilogue, but since the likelihood of my finishing them in this decade is extremely slim, I decided to end the story here. Other than a couple of loose ends, particularly with Dan's drinking problem, Gil's book, and the letters he wrote to Sara, I felt that a satisfying conclusion could work at the end of this chapter. If I'm ever motivated to wrap up the loose ends, it will probably be in a short sequel._

_So this is it. Thanks for reading and for the wonderful and useful reviews over the years. Danie_


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